Though This Be Madness
by theDubliner
Summary: When Sherlock wakes up in the hospital after the fall, Mycroft is there with some startling information: Sherlock imagined not only Moriarty, but everyone else in his life. Is Sherlock Holmes truly mad, and if not - why does everyone keep telling him so?
1. Morphine Dreams

_Author's Note: I watched "A Beautiful Mind" last night with my sister, and this is what came of it … so sue me, haha. Anyhow, I thought it might be fun to play with this idea. I really am very fond of this premise, so I've taken the precaution of mapping out the rest of the story so I don't mess it up along the way. This should be a fairly angsty story, with a "real" plot". Since this is a little more than just drabble, I would really appreciate feedback – if no one's interested I won't clutter up fanfiction with my nonsense, haha. So please – enjoy, and let me know what you think : )_

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><p>There were voices. Two of them – both male. These things Sherlock knew in his very delirious, highly sedated state. One of the voices was his brother's, and though he kept calling the other man "doctor", it was certainly <em>not <em>the doctor Sherlock would have liked to be there. But they were talking about him, his brother and the doctor. Sherlock couldn't really make much of their words – they didn't really seem to make any sense.

"He's been touch and go for the last few hours, but I think you may rest assured, Mr. Holmes, that your brother will pull through."

Sherlock heard Mycroft sigh, but otherwise his voice continued along without any sign of emotion: "And you've already administered the first round of medication?"

"Yes," the doctor confirmed. There was a pause. "Did he leave no note, then?"

"Not a note, per say – but the gentleman I told you about – a Dr. John Watson received a phone call minutes before it happened. It seems my brother rattled off some nonsense about a criminal mastermind. This supposed criminal had made my brother's suicide necessary – otherwise the gentleman, Dr. Watson, would be murdered." Sherlock heard his brother chuckle sadly.

The doctor added his ironic little laugh: "Poor bloke. I can't imagine how he felt."

"Why, he was scared out of his wits. How would you react if a complete stranger called you and proceeded to inform you that there was a gun trained on you, then deliver his last words and jump off a building?"

The doctor whistled through his front teeth, as if it were indeed the strangest thing he'd ever heard. When he had regained his composure he went back to business: "And this doctor – this Dr. Watson – is the only one of your brother's hallucinations that he hasn't _actually_ come into physical contact with, is that correct?"

"Mm," Mycroft conceded absently. "All the others have met Sherlock, at least fleetingly, and he has integrated them into his fantasies. Dr. Watson – though he has lived across the street from my brother for years – has assured me that they have never so much as spoken a 'Good Morning' to one another."

"I see," the doctor mused. "And yet he is the most persistent?"

"Sherlock swears they're best friends – that they do everything together. He talks about Dr. Watson almost incessantly."

The doctor's tone became a little softer: "Mr. Holmes, I beg your pardon, but how_ long_ have you known your brother was ill?"

Mycroft was silent for a few moments, and then he admitted: "I've always know."

"This is a very serious affliction if left untreated, Mr. Holmes – why did you never take your brother to seek the help he needed?"

"I thought they were harmless – his hallucinations. Just the hyper-activity of a lonely boy's imagination. I thought it couldn't hurt to let him indulge his fantasies."

Sherlock felt his brother's fingers brush the hair from his forehead. The doctor continued: "And in these fantasies … your brother is a detective? He solves crimes for the police?"

"He works with Detective Inspector Lestrade – a very real officer who reported to the scene when my brother's house was broken into a number of years ago. Since that time, Sherlock has been informing me of various little adventures he undertakes for the Inspector. I have been in contact, and Lestrade does not even remember my brother."

"And the other participants in your brother's hallucinations?"

Mycroft sighed again. "Everyone my brother has mentioned in the last ten years appear to have only the vaguest knowledge of him. They are not purely figments of his imagination, as they are indeed real people – but the roles they play in my brother's life seem to be grossly exaggerated. For instance – the woman who owns the sandwich shop where my brother gets lunch every afternoon, a Mrs. Hudson, admits that she has a friendly association with Sherlock, but Sherlock himself insists the woman is… his landlady."

"Ah," the doctor said. "Well, we can discuss this all in further detail when he wakes up."

"Yes."

"And at least he's here now, though it is regrettable that a suicide attempt had to necessitate your getting your brother the help he's needed for years. But we've started him on his medication, and we'll begin his therapy in a few days. The hardest part, Mr. Holmes, will come when he wakes up. You'll have to tell him everything – to break down the initial wall. He's going to fight it – his brain will try to reject what you're telling him, especially since you've so long indulged in these fantasies with him. But you must be firm. Offer him proof, answer all his questions. And hopefully, with help, your brother may begin to distinguish the line between reality and fantasy. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry," the doctor comforted, "Schizophrenia is highly treatable in this day and age, Mr. Holmes…"

Sherlock heard the door close as the doctor exited. Then he felt his brother take his hand. He wanted _so badly_ to open his eyes, to demand an explanation, but another blast of morphine was released from the IV by his bedside, and everything he'd just heard was swept away – out of his consciousness – into the oblivion of dreamless sleep.

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><p><em><span>AN: If you've read, I would desperately appreciate a few words in response. Thank you so much : )_


	2. It Begins

_Author's Note__: Yay chapter two – sorry for posting it on Valentine's Day, ha, it's neither romantic nor very happy in the least. I do hope you'll forgive me. Anyway, thank you all for the great reviews on chapter one. This is significantly longer, and I'm happy with it, but what I'm really looking forward to is chapter three – the return of John Watson, which is already half-written, so expect a speedy update. Cheers._

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><p>The first thing that entered Sherlock Holme's hazy waking state was sound. There was the sound of his own breathing. There was the sound of the monitors and machines buzzing and blipping by his bedside. There was the sound of his brother's long strides as Mycroft paced the room: the tap and turn of neat dress shoes on the tile. Occasionally there were voices.<p>

Sherlock kept still and silent for a long time on that first morning when waking seemed a very real possibility. He had no memory of the conversation between his brother and the doctor. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious. The last thing he remembered clearly, concretely, was saying goodbye to John…

Sherlock ran through those last moments in his mind. And then memories turned quickly to planning – because there would be much work ahead of him in the coming months. If Moriarty had failed to destroy him, he had certainly succeeded in creating one gigantic problem.

Sherlock heard the scrape of chair legs on the floor and he opened his eyes to meet Mycroft's. His brother was trying to adjust in a chair that was much too small for his long limbs. When he caught Sherlock's eye, he stopped dead. The brothers sat suspended for a moment.

And then Sherlock grinned.

Mycroft cocked an elegant eyebrow.

"I'm cleverer than I thought," Sherlock said, and his arrogance was clear even through a voice that was rough from lack of use.

Mycroft crossed his legs. He looked wary. "Oh?"

"While my plans do _ordinarily_ come off perfectly, I must admit I had been just a little nervous over this latest…"

Mycroft sighed but said nothing.

Sherlock watched his brother carefully, trying to understand why Mycroft was not as thrilled as himself with the fact that their highly unlikely plan had been executed almost flawlessly. But when Sherlock Holmes studied the man across from him, all he could see was … his brother. The bags under his eyes told Sherlock that Mycroft was tired – but any fool could have told him _that_. There was nothing _more_. He couldn't guess what Mycroft had eaten for lunch; nor could he tell by the wrinkles in his vest when Mycroft had last been to the office; nor could he deduce from the state of his bed sheets or the thickness of his charts at the end of the mattress how long he had been in the hospital. Something was wrong. Sherlock shook his head almost imperceptibly and tried again. But … no, there was nothing. His brother interrupted his thoughts:

"Sherlock," he said softly, "I do not know what _plan_ you're talking about."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please, Mycroft. I know in your childishness you were upset that I failed to clue you in sooner, but honestly – even _I_ didn't know I would have to resort to such a desperate course of action until almost the last moment. But it's over now, and Molly really did excellent work. Speaking of, I must thank her properly, is she-"

"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted again.

Sherlock frowned at his brother's tone. "Yes?"

"Are you speaking of Molly … Molly Hooper?"

"Yes of course Molly Hooper – who else?" Sherlock tried to smile, but the expression kept slipping off his face.

"Then I regret to inform you that Miss Hooper is not here. She is at home."

Sherlock waved it away, "No matter, I will simply see her later."

"In Edinburgh."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together for a moment, and he chuckled uneasily. "Mycroft, what exactly are you playing at?"

"Molly Hooper – Molly Clarke now – lives in Edinburgh, Sherlock. She has two children. You haven't seen Molly since her wedding … four years ago."

"Mycroft," Sherlock's voice wavered, "Mycroft – have you gone mad?"

And then Mycroft did something that Sherlock knew his big brother would never do. He left his chair and sat on the side of the bed. His proximity made Sherlock nervous. "Sherlock," he said softly, sadly, "Little brother… I am going to tell you something, and you must _promise_ not to overreact."

Sherlock nodded deftly.

"You are… _ill_, Sherlock. These things that you seem to think have happened to you – the people you've spoken to and the places you've been, they … it isn't real, Sherlock. You – your mind has been playing tricks on you, in a manner of speaking. You-"

Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position, as far away from his brother as he could get. "I don't understand."

Mycroft did not try to reach out towards his brother. He remained, sitting straight as a rail. "They are hallucinations, Sherlock. You have… Well, it is a type of Schizophrenia. It takes seemingly trivial stimuli and creates-"

"I know what it is!" Sherlock snapped, but his brain could not seem to pull up the pertinent information concerning the disease. He seemed to remember a time when he had known the DSM-IV by heart, yet no images came at his brain's bidding – no lists of symptoms or possible prognoses appeared before his eyelids.

Mycroft sat patiently while unknown thoughts raced behind his brother's cloudy grey eyes. "So…" Sherlock murmured, humoring his brother for the present, giving himself more time to think, "Please oblige me then. What exactly is my _reality_?"

And Sherlock sat quietly while his brother described what "reality" in fact looked like for the great Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft rehashed and reshaped his entire life. He did not, apparently, live at 221B Baker Street – that was the address of the sandwich shop where he frequently lunched. Mrs. Hudson was the old widow who was kind to him, yes, but who was most certainly _not_ his landlady. No, Sherlock had his own house, apparently, not too many blocks away, where he lived alone. He was currently unemployed, though Mycroft took care of all his financial needs. He did not solve crimes with Inspector Lestrade, nor did he conduct experiments in the basement of St. Bartholomew's Hospital with Molly Hooper – though he had been there a few years back to have his tonsils removed. Mycroft painstakingly described the "reality" of everyone so frequently came into contact with. Sally Donovan: the snooty librarian at the London Public Library where Sherlock spent many an afternoon reading. Anderson: the garbage man who had once kicked Sherlock's cat (yes, he had a cat, _not_ a skull). Molly Hooper: his friend from university – perhaps the only _real_ friend he'd ever had – who had indeed been madly in love him him, but who had eventually moved on, got married, and moved away. She now only sent Sherlock friendly cards on his birthday and at Christmas. And John. John Watson: the ex-army doctor who lived across the street. He had never met Sherlock. They were strangers.

Sherlock finally interrupted when Mycroft came around to discussing John: "Mycroft, this is absurd. I've spoken to John hundreds of times – he's my flatmate, for pity's sake. I could tell you everything about the man-"

"No, Sherlock, those are not real conversations. This is what I am trying to explain to you. Your brain found something intriguing in the appearance of your neighbor and proceeded to invent a personality, a relationship, and-"

"No," Sherlock shook his head resolutely, "this is insane."

Mycroft grimaced, "Poor choice of words, I'm afraid."

"Mycroft – I know perfectly well that you're making all this rubbish up – what I don't know is _why_ you're doing it. So if you would just please-"

Mycroft interrupted angrily: "So you really _think_ that you are a sociopathic genius who spends his evenings running about London behind a police car, outsmarting criminals and dodging bullets and solving mysteries that baffle Scotland Yard's best and brightest?"

Sherlock nodded, but he suddenly felt very foolish…

Mycroft scoffed, "Please, baby brother, doesn't that sound a bit … unbelievable? Just a little childish?"

Sherlock shrugged. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls and would not provide any answers. "Fine," he said after a moment, "Prove it to me, then. _Make_ me believe you."

And that was the beginning. Sherlock was kept in the hospital, under psychiatric observation, for the next couple of days. He was force-fed medication and calmed with morphine. In between drug-dreams and sedated silence, Mycroft would appear, providing ever more evidence to support his claim that Sherlock was mad.

On Tuesday, Inspector Lestrade came to visit, and confessed to a bewildered Sherlock Holmes exactly what his brother had already told him: Lestrade did not know him. They had met once, years ago, but Lestrade regretted having to say: "Mr. Holmes … I'm sorry I can't tell you what you'd like to hear. But I really… well, I _am_ sorry, mate."

On Wednesday, Mycroft brought Sherlock's cat – for whom Sherlock felt a tingle of familiarity, but yet could not pull the wretched creature's name from the depths of his brain. He let it sleep next to him that night all the same – its strange purring noise providing some small comfort.

On Friday, Mycroft bought Sherlock a violin (since, apparently, Sherlock did not actually own one), and challenged him to play. Sherlock had taken the instrument into his long fingers, and it felt much more familiar than the silly cat. Yet, when he raised the bow to meet the strings, what sounded was an awful stringing along of hideous notes.

On Saturday, Mycroft brought Sherlock a stack of papers, documents. Many were newspapers – the ones which Sherlock _thought _had contained the stories of the crimes he had solved. Yet he was never mentioned once. Nothing concerning Reichenbach – no documentation of the trial of Jim Moriarty, which had certainly taken up front page space for months… But there was nothing. Included in the pile were also cards from Molly – friendly little messages that contained snapshots of Molly standing next to a dark-haired man with two little brats that were unmistakably Molly's children.

By Sunday afternoon Sherlock was very nearly defeated. His brain still felt sluggish and useless – his body was weak and still broken. Mycroft had spent the week persuading, manipulating, challenging his brother – and Sherlock had lost every battle.

By Sunday afternoon, Sherlock consented to see the doctor who had diagnosed him. The man was short and chubby with fine white hair, but his condescending tone made Sherlock hate him instantly. He explained to Sherlock the purpose of the medication he was taking, and detailed the therapy that Sherlock would need to begin immediately. The medical man made a fatal mistake, however, when he said:

"Now, this Dr. Watson – I need you to be on your guard against that _particular_ hallucination, as he may be the hardest to dispel."

"_Dispel_?" Sherlock hissed suddenly, breaking the indifferent lethargy that had settled over him of late.

"Get rid of," the doctor casually clarified.

"I know what the _word_ means," Sherlock snapped. "Why would I want to – to _get rid of_ … John?"

The doctor sighed sadly, as if he were dealing with a child, and folded his hands over Sherlock's chart. "We've been over this, Mr. Holmes. In order to return to society – in order to reclaim your grip on _reality_, we need to dispel _all_ of your hallucinations. Now, the medicine and the counseling _will_ help, but it is going to take a concentrated effort on your part to focus on what is real and what is imagined. John Watson is-"

"I want to see him," Sherlock said suddenly, snapping his head around to face his brother.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft began.

"If you want me to believe you," Sherlock annunciated dangerously, shaking with a terrified caged-animal type of fear. "If you want me to believe _any_ of this – if you want me to take your medication and undergo your 'therapy', you will bring John here and have him tell me to my face that he doesn't know me."

The doctor tried again to interfere: "Mr. Holmes, I am not sure that would be advisable, given your current-"

"_Bring me John_!" Sherlock screamed, his hands bunched into fists in his bed sheets.

Mycroft watched his brother's agonized face, drowned out of all its color, and nodded once. "Very well," he whispered, and Sherlock's hands relaxed just slightly.

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><p><em><span>AN: So what do you think? Is our favorite consulting detective crazy? Perhaps John will have the answer._


	3. The Improbable Truth

_Author's Note: Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews! For all of you who have told me that this premise is a bit bizarre, lol, I totally understand. I was unsure about it at first too, but it really wouldn't leave me alone - and what is fanfiction for, if not to allow us to indulge in our silly imaginings? Ha, anyhow, I really love this chapter and I think you will too. I really appreciate everyone who has cast their vote on whether or not they think Sherlock is actually crazy - I, of course, cannot say anything, but I doubt my poor attempts at suspense are keeping you much on edge. I should really get a beta reader - any takers? _

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><p>Sherlock sat fidgeting in his bed. He had gone over and over the facts in his duller-than-usual brain. There seemed no reason why it couldn't all be true. In fact, it would explain a great deal if he <em>were<em> in fact a crazy person. But no … the _old _Sherlock might have been mad – the Sherlock he was _now_ seemed perfectly average. They kept spinning round and round – the truth and the fiction – chasing each other's tails, fighting over which was which.

When Sherlock heard footsteps coming down the hall, he tried to calm himself, to reconstruct some semblance of composure. But his stomach was in ropes, his palms were sweaty, and his eyeballs felt like sandpaper. Not to mention the way his brain felt rusty – all the time now – as if the cogs kept getting caught and only jerked themselves free for a fraction of a second before coming to another abrupt halt.

And then they were outside the door – his brother and John. Sherlock recognized John's silhouette through the clouded glass of the door. Mycroft towering over him, expressing something quite vehemently with his hands. It was a good many moments before John gave a curt, military nod, and the pair entered.

John looked precisely like Sherlock knew he would – surely this person who he knew so well, whose very presence relaxed him, could be no stranger. Everything about him screamed _familiar_ – he cleared his throat the same, and held his jaw the same. But his cane was back in his right hand, clutched beneath white knuckles.

When no one spoke, Sherlock frowned: "Your limp has come back, I see."

John looked very uncomfortable. "Yes," he said, his voice unsteady, but friendly all the same. "I … old war wound. I was shot, you see." He looked to Mycroft, as if seeking approval. Sherlock noted the glance but could make nothing of it.

Sherlock leaned forward anxiously. "Yes you were," he conceded, trying his best to maintain calm. He kept steady eye contact, as if he could intimidate John into taking his side. "But not in the leg. You were shot in the shoulder."

John looked confused, almost … frightened.

Sherlock continued: "Your limp, it's … psychosomatic, remember? Your real wound is in your left shoulder. You told me so yourself, after…"

"After _what_, Sherlock?" Mycroft interrupted whatever John might have said. His tone was irritated, like he was trying to make the conversation move quicker. He looked ... nervous.

"After 'A Study in Pink'," Sherlock replied in Mycroft's rude tone. "It was the day we met," he turned back to John, and his voice was kinder.

John looked at his shoes. "I'm sorry … Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid this _is_ the first day we've met."

Sherlock stared long and hard at John, but the man returned his gaze steadily. He held himself straight and sturdy, not moving a muscle except for the clenching and unclenching of his fists by his side.

Sherlock looked from John to Mycroft and back again. "Prove it."

"W-what?" John stammered, "How would I-"

"Show me your shoulder," Sherlock continued coolly, "If you insist that this is all in my head, show me your left shoulder, and if there is no-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft scolded, again cutting off John's response. "This man has been bothered by you enough for one lifetime. He came here because he is an admirable human being and was concerned for your wellbeing after that frankly alarming phone conversation. I have since explained the situation and he came because he has graciously taken time out of his busy day to try and help you. But asking him to undress in your hospital room," Mycroft rolled his eyes, clearly losing his patience, "It is simply absurd."

Sherlock was about to snap back at his brother … but then John – dear, sweet, loyal John said: "Indeed, Mr. Holmes, people might talk," and he gave a little chuckle.

Synapses fired in Sherlock's brain and he leaned forward, his hands unconsciously grasping at his sheets like a lifeline. There was a look in John's eyes that Sherlock could read. Not the observation of a genius – it wasn't a deduction – Sherlock simply _knew_ John. Of course he knew John – the man was his best friend, his only friend. For a moment he felt like everything had snapped back to normal, like the world had stopped spinning so quickly and Sherlock could once again find his footing. The look John was giving Sherlock now said: _Keep your mouth shut, idiot, you're about to say something bloody stupid_.

And it was difficult – damn near impossible, really – but Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to wish away the overwhelming need to pull close to him the only thing that made sense anymore and ask him why – _why_ was this happening?

But Mycroft interrupted his thoughts: "Well, is that _proof_ enough for you?"

Sherlock felt woozy for a moment. He refocused his attention and seemed to suffer a brief time lapse. He felt off-kilter and queasy. "Is _what _proof enough?" he asked irritably, shaking the dizziness from his head.

Mycroft looked pointedly to his left. John had unbuttoned his shirt. He was faced away from Sherlock and his shoulders were exposed. Sherlock gasped. The skin – it was perfect. There was no scar – not even the slightest trace of a blemish. This person could never have been shot – not there, not through his shoulder.

"But…" Sherlock stuttered, "but, what you just said…"

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and cocked an eyebrow. He turned around and began re-buttoning his shirt. "I – what did I just say?"

"You said: '_People might talk_', just – just as you did after… after…" But Sherlock could not finish his statement because John was looking very genuinely confused. "I…" he began again weakly. He felt like weeping, "Didn't you?"

John frowned, but there was more hurt in his expression than confusion. "Why would I say that?"

John looked at Mycroft, who nodded wearily and said, "I think that's quire enough for one day, don't you?"

John swallowed and gave Sherlock one last glance before looking back at his shoes. Sherlock sat floundering.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft, "for all your patience. You have been most understanding and I-"

And then Sherlock panicked … because they were going to take John away. He threw off his sheets and was almost across the room, almost … but then there were nurses and staff holding onto his arms. Sherlock didn't know where they had come from, and so damn _fast_. They stabbed a syringe into his arm, but he kept his eyes on John, whose hands were shaking and whose breaths were coming rather quickly. Mycroft was trying to pull him from the room.

"Wait!" Sherlock cried, and stopped struggling. Everyone in the room seemed to pause – Mycroft included, which of course had been Sherlock's main objective. "John," Sherlock panted, his weary body urging him back to the bed, "Is it true?"

John Watson swallowed hard, biting his lip. But he nodded. "Listen to your brother," he said, "I'm sorry. I – I wish I could …"

Mycroft began lightly pulling on his arm again.

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes." And then they were gone.

And Sherlock awoke fifteen hours later, his every limb throbbing and heavy like cement. It was dark, and Sherlock was alone in his room. It felt odd, since the last moments of his consciousness had been bright and sharp and filled with commotion.

But those moments had seen the death of Sherlock's resolve. Genius detective or not – he still believed in his old maxim: Once the impossible had been eliminated, whatever remained – however improbable – must be the truth. And Sherlock knew that the "impossible" in this situation was that John would lie to him. John Watson – loyal, caring, brave John Watson, would not lie to him; his best friend would not lie to him. _That _was impossible. So all that remained was the improbable … the improbable truth that he, Sherlock Holmes, was mad.

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><p><em><span>AN: Please let me know what you're thinking! Without your feedback, I am completely lost._


	4. Little Pink Pills

_Author's Note: Okay, everybody, first things first. You must know that I really really really struggled with this chapter, haha. I also struggled with the decision to put it up as-is, and save what comes after for the next chapter. I know that this is quite long and rather dry with very little redemption there at the end, but it was very important for me to get a good grasp on the character's state of mind before continuing. I promise you much more action in the next chapter, which I hope to get up as soon as humanly possible because it is much more fun than this here, lol. _

_Anyhow, this has really been a well-received story, and I appreciate all your reviews and subscriptions and the fact that you're all so open to something that is a little different. I will have you all in mind as I go about finishing up chapter five. Thanks again : )_

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><p>The first month had been the hardest, really, because try as he might, Sherlock couldn't remember anything that Mycroft was showing him. They had gone "home" to what, apparently, was Sherlock's house one blustery day in October. It was a modest little thing, but still three times the size of the flat at Baker Street. Sherlock had his own living room and kitchen – remarkably tidy, Sherlock had thought wonderingly. Though he had since admitted defeat, his mind couldn't help but conjure up little demons of remarkable clarity, and so when he saw the spotless kitchen counters and the newly-vacuumed sitting room, he thought of Mrs. Hudson, duster in hand while proclaiming herself, quite vehemently, <em>not<em> his housekeepers.

"What do you think?" Mycroft had asked hesitantly, as Sherlock wandered through his new … _old_ home. "Can you not recall anything?"

Sherlock had studied for a few moments – the doorknob, the mail on the desk, the mugs in the cupboard… He shook his head wearily in Mycroft's direction. His brother tried on a sad smile and took his elbow, "No matter. It will all come back … eventually."

Sherlock sat in an armchair that felt all wrong and waited while Mycroft made tea. It took almost all the self-control he had not to close his eyes and pretend he was in the _right_ armchair and that the sounds coming from the kitchen were those of John rather than Mycroft. It was almost impossible, but Sherlock Holmes kept his eyes wide open...

And the brothers drank their tea in silence. And when they had finished, Sherlock stood again to run his fingers along the mantle and over the unblemished wallpaper. When his fingers came to the window he flicked open the blinds and peered out the bay windows. He knew he shouldn't say it, but… "Is that where John lives, then?" It was a pretty house with green shutters and a light on upstairs.

Mycroft closed the blinds with a snap. "That is Dr. Watson's house, yes. But you must never go there, Sherlock, do you promise me? I have kept this house because I thought it would be productive for you to try and jog your memory with things that are familiar. Be that as it may, if you cannot … _control_ yourself, I will be forced to find you a new home. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

And then Mycroft was gone, and Sherlock was all alone.

Well, he had the bloody cat, of course, but it was very unreliable company as it was only nice to Sherlock when he stroked it behind the ears, which made Sherlock sneeze. Consequently the damn thing spent most of its time curled up beneath the kitchen table or mewing incessantly underfoot while Sherlock tried to remember how to make toast.

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><p>That first month went by in a nonsensical blur of tea, sleep, and medication, and this soon became the pattern for the next many months. Mycroft rarely visited, and there was little else to distract Sherlock from the colorless haze of emptiness. It didn't really bother Sherlock the way he thought it would. His "imaginary" genius brain had rotted away with silence and inactivity, but this new average one seemed to relish nothing better than lying on the sofa at all times of the day and night. The only thing that pulled Sherlock from his coma-like state was when his brother texted him every evening, promptly at six p.m.: a reminder to pop more pills.<p>

Three tiny pills – a faded salmon pink that Sherlock took with water. He didn't take them because he _wanted_ to; he didn't even take them because Mycroft told him to. No, he took them because they … relaxed him? But no, that was not quite the word. If you were to ask Sherlock himself, he couldn't have explained it, but in the few hours before Mycroft texted him, he would begin to feel on edge. Suddenly the lethargic indifference of lying about on the couch felt stuffy and oppressive. Suddenly the ease with which he'd surrendered his whole life over to Mycroft (and it _was_ easy, letting someone else deal with all the pain and baggage) didn't seem acceptable. In the hours before Mycroft's text, when _last_ night's pills were losing their effect, Sherlock began to feel antsy and he almost always got a searing headache, the dullness in his brain evaporating into a sharp throbbing.

When Sherlock was in these moods, he knew the hallucinations must not be far away. Because when he was in these moods he felt very close to that _old_ Sherlock Holmes – now nothing more than a storybook character; a delusion of grandeur fabricated by a lonely, stagnant, sick brain. And it was hard, sometimes, to refrain from indulging in those few hours when his brain seemed sharper and when John – whom Sherlock caught glances of through the blinds – looked so solid and friendly and familiar. But those moments, pleasant and fleeting, always brought him to tears as the throbbing pain in his skull intensified and it felt as if a wild animal were trying to claw its way out. Thus it was usually with great relief that Sherlock received Mycroft's text, took the pills, and collapsed back on the sofa – content with being useless and helpless if it meant that he was required to do nothing but sit and breathe.

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><p>At the beginning of month two, his therapy began, and Sherlock discovered that the sofa at the therapist's office was even nicer than the one he had at home. Thus, if he simply told the woman what she wanted to hear, he got two whole hours every Tuesday and Thursday to lie quietly and listen to the soothing sitar music played over Dr. Maggie's laptop.<p>

"Can you tell me what you see?" she would ask.

And Sherlock, lying sleepily with his hands folded over his stomach would rattle off some descriptions of the flat at Baker Street.

"Good," Dr. Maggie would say, "and the place where you're standing – where is it? Is it somewhere in London?"

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. "No," he said, pretending to be struggling with his inner delusion, "It doesn't exist."

"Very good."

Sherlock frowned. Couldn't the woman see that all he wanted was more quiet time? His couch, her couch – it didn't matter. The therapy was not like the pills – the pills actually seemed to help him. They slowed him down, calmed his mind – made lying on the sofa for the rest of his days seem a very pleasant possibility ... and that made Sherlock happy. The therapy, as far as he was concerned, was completely useless.

Because what nobody seemed to understand was that the hallucinations didn't bother him any more. John Watson never stormed his new house, asking why he hadn't been home in ages; no texts from Lestrade blew up his phone; he never came downstairs to find Mrs. Hudson in his kitchen with a mop… The fight he'd put up those first few days in the hospital was burned out of him. After John's visit, Sherlock's brain had folded in on itself and the bit that was left was concerned with only the most basic of human needs: food, sleep, comfort. If something _more_ ever tired to peep through, tired to get him to _do_ something, Sherlock simply took a few more pills. Simple. Life was simple.

Just breathing.

* * *

><p>Seven months of half-existence, of stagnation, of lying on a sofa and watching the clouds pass outside the window and then it was April, and London seemed to be as quiet and peaceful as Sherlock was.<p>

Sherlock was lying in his chair, his knees bent over its arm, throwing peanuts at the damn cat that wouldn't leave him alone no matter how many times he pushed it out the window. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon, but for whatever reason his head was already beginning to throb.

Sherlock abandoned the peanuts to lie on the sofa, closing his eyes and cursing. It would be another four hours until Mycroft's text and the lovely little pink pills…

An hour later and the pain was worse than ever. Sherlock gazed out the window and watched the tops of the trees swaying in the spring breeze. Though it was not his custom, Sherlock stepped outside into the afternoon, thinking a little fresh air might do him good. He had never actually visited his own front lawn, and decided now might be a good time to get acquainted. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock stretched out in the grass.

It was a lovely feeling, and Sherlock decided his lawn – at least in this weather – was every bit as comfortable as the sofa. The sun was warm on his cheeks and the cool breeze kept teasing his hair, tickling his forehead. The bright light was painting the back of his eyelids with red and white-polka dots. Birds were chirruping somewhere.

And it was into this heaven of half-sleep and easy sunshine that a voice came. Quiet and cautious, with a smile in it, it sounded above his head: "Hello again."

Sherlock opened his eyes and found the smiling face of John Watson. The man was standing above Sherlock's head, his hands in his pockets, looking down into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock lie quite still, regarding the upside-down face of his once-friend, and said: "Hello. Are you real-John or imaginary-John?"

The man above him chuckled softly, sadly. "Real John," he confirmed.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. The last thing he needed was an hallucination to weasel its way back in and disrupt the easy nothingness he had been enjoying for the past seven months. "Are you quite sure? I have been … fooled before."

John raised his right hand. "Scout's honor," he said.

Sherlock smiled despite himself and pushed up into a sitting position.

John gestured towards the grass. "May I?" When Sherlock nodded, he sat down cross-legged.

After a beat of silence, John began rambling, almost apologetically, "Sorry," he said, "But it was just such a lovely day – couldn't stay inside, you know. Then I saw you out here and thought: '_Now he's got the right idea_'. Thought I'd come join you, if that's, well, if it's okay with..."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't mind," he said, "We are neighbors, aren't we?" He wasn't quite sure if this was a neighborly thing to do, but decided that John, being far less of a recluse, would know better than he would, and let it go.

There was a few moments of silence during which both men seemed to be looking anywhere but at each other, letting the April breeze tug at their shirts, at their hair, kiss their cheeks.

John finally sat up a little and kindly asked, "How _is_ everything going … you know, with all of … that?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, twisting a blade of grass into a knot and ripping it in the process.

John chuckled and made a poor attempt at humor: "So my imaginary self hasn't been bothering you too much then?"

Sherlock smiled a little. He still wasn't wholly convinced that the man across from him _wasn't_ imaginary-John, but decided that even if it was, he'd be taking his medication in a few hours and that would make everything better. "Not at all," he smiled. No harm done if he indulged in the little ball of warmth that seemed to dance about in his stomach while he sat here with John. Besides, if this _was_ real-John, it might be nice to form an easy friendship with this person who seemed so friendly and sturdy – they _were_ neighbors after all. Mycroft might even be pleased that he was forming some real world relationships.

So the two men sat, enjoying each other's company, speaking only occasionally, asking questions or exchanging little jokes at the expense of passerby.

And it was all so lovely and distracting that Sherlock did not even notice that the pain in his head had ebbed. Didn't even notice when the sun began to sink. Couldn't be bothered to remember that his phone was inside, ringing off the hook because six p.m. had come and gone and he had not responded to Mycroft's text…

And when darkness had settled completely over the pair, Sherlock shivered in the chill and made John frown. "Cold?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Why don't you get inside?" John suggested, though his face certainly did not reflect his words. "I really should be going anyway, you know, it's quite late and-"

"You can come inside," Sherlock interrupted suddenly, surprising himself. "I mean, if you'd like to..." he amended quietly.

John opened his mouth to protest, but closed it immediately. The breeze blew again. "That," John smiled suddenly, "would be lovely."

* * *

><p><em><span>AN: I know, I don't mean to leave you with a cliff-hanger, I'm soooo sorry, haha. I promise to have chapter five up as soon as possible. In the meantime, I would greatly appreciate some feedback on Sherlock's transformation and the believability of this story thus far. I promise your reviews go along way in motivating me to continue lol you are my life-force._


	5. Evidence to the Contrary

_Author's Note__: I promised a speedy update, didn't I? : ) _

_So I have decided to cut this chapter in half and post what's here first, saving what happens after for a later post. This is for two reasons. Firstly, putting them both together was far too long, and the tones of the two segments are too different to put them together without it all sounding like a big jumbled mess of angst and action. And secondly: I enjoy keeping you all in suspense, haha, though this chapter really leans heavily in favor of one side of the argument about Sherlock's sanity. So please enjoy – this is just a taste of what comes after. I hope to have chapter six up shortly, after a bit more tweaking, and I promise in two more chapters or so you'll start getting some solid answers. _

_Also – I just want to say, while I love reviews of all sizes, shapes, and colors … the reviews I've been getting on this story have been absolutely brilliant. All your predictions and little insights have really kept me smiling. Thank you so, so much._

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><p>It was warmer in the house, now, than it was outside on the lawn, and Sherlock cracked the window to let some of the fragrant evening air into the living room. The bloody cat jumped up onto the sill almost immediately and looked up at its owner with lazy hazel eyes. Sherlock sighed and went to put the kettle on. When he returned with a tea tray, his guest stared at him with all the awed astonishment of one who had never seen such an amazing feat accomplished in all his life.<p>

Sherlock frowned. "Something the matter?"

"No," John quickly wiped the look from his face, "'Course not." He took the mug Sherlock offered him and sniffed at it experimentally before taking a cautious first sip.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"'S good," John mumbled, surprised, "Thank you."

Sherlock grinned triumphantly, the friendly exchange leaving him in such high spirits that he did not even protest when the cat moved from the windowsill to his lap.

The room was soon filled with the smell of spring, and the two men fell into the same easy conversation they had enjoyed outside. Sherlock asked John some polite questions about his job and John answered them with the same ease and amiability, cracking a joke every now and again. He didn't ask very many questions in return, which was fine with Sherlock, really, who wouldn't have had anything interesting to say anyhow. But John proved an endless stream of conversation – gushing about the smallest details of his life – filling Sherlock in on everything he'd been doing recently. His patients, the irritating nurses at the clinic, nights he'd spent drinking too much with coworkers.

If Sherlock didn't know any better, he'd have thought the man across from him was just as lonely as he himself had been recently. As if to confirm this suspicion, Sherlock would often catch John watching him in a sad, grateful sort of a way, and he wondered why it was that this person – whom he had allegedly "bothered" so much of late – would be so willing and so _eager_ to share all of this personal information with him…

Didn't matter. Talking with John was every bit as easy as dozing on the sofa; only it seemed to make him smile more. He wondered idly about the last time he had smiled, and couldn't quite recall. He let the thought melt away, and took another sip of tea. He watched John carefully, rather having lost track of the story John was currently telling – something about a six-year-old with tonsillitis - but his eyes were quite bright with kindness and his mouth was laughing, the little lines around it relaxing as he spoke. Sherlock smiled again.

* * *

><p>It was perhaps a little after midnight when the headache came back … and with a vengeance. It came so hard and so fast that Sherlock had little time to remember that it had been this very pain that had sent him outside in the first place. Or that the pills that would help were in the cabinet above the sink…<p>

"Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, reaching out a steadying hand.

Sherlock pressed his fingers into his eyes, then against his temples, groaning as the lights in the room pulsed and spun and the blood thrummed in his ears. He wondered vaguely if he were dying.

"Sherlock, are you alright? Sherlock? What can I-"

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, "just need to…" His head fell back against the sofa. Somewhere in his foggy, pained consciousness, Sherlock heard John leave his chair and come to kneel beside him. He felt John hovering a few inches away, breathing, waiting for something to happen.

John began speaking again, but Sherlock could not make out the words. His brain was shutting his body down, its last defense against the searing pain. A dizzying semi-consciousness took over then – that kind between sleeping and waking when one often dreams of moving about in real life, brushing one's teeth or some such trivial nonsense, when one is in fact merely between snoozes on the bloody alarm clock. So it was with little surprise that Sherlock found that, though he was quite detached from the world around him, he could still hear its sounds and feel its swirling presence somewhere towards the back of his mind.

He could still feel John there beside him – heard the doctor call his name a few times before cursing under his breath. He felt the fingers at his wrist as John checked his pulse. He felt a blanket quickly tucked about his shoulders. He felt the vibrations on the floor as John retreated to the kitchen, and he heard the unmistakable clicks of John dialing someone quite rapidly on his mobile.

Then he heard the sound of John's voice – the walls of the adjoining room muffling the sounds of his anger but rendering them no less frightening.

"Answer your damn _phone_ you bloody, selfish, miserable bastard!"

Sherlock, in his hazy in-between state, listened to the sound of John pacing for what seemed like hours before the shrill ring of his phone bounced off the kitchen tiles and assaulted his ears.

John answered on the first ring. "Where the _hell_-" he began, but someone on the other end cut him off. Then: "I don't know. It was fine, then he started holding his head and fell back on the sofa … No, I couldn't wake him … Yes of course he's bloody breathing! I'm not an idiot!"

Sherlock knew he was the subject of conversation, but in the dull throb and dizzy swirl of his brain, that was about _all_ he knew. He continued listening anyhow, determined to store away the information and figure it all out at a later date…

"How would I know?" John was asking his co-conspirator. He was speaking very quickly and his tone was far from kind. "If he did, he didn't do it in front of me … I don't know, maybe 3:30? Hell, I can't remember. I suppose whenever you sent me the bloody text telling me you were going to be out of country for … You want me to _what_? No, hell no, of course not … You can come here and do it yourself if you're so bloody keen … He'll be fine until tomorrow, won't he? … Well, I don't care; I'm not doing it. I've had just about enough of your- … No, sod this … He seemed just like a bloke who'd spent seven ruddy months lying on a couch … Fine, when will you be here? … Yes, of course I can stay until then. Jesus, do you think I'd leave him alone like this? … Fine, good, but if he seems normal to you, don't you dare do anything rash … No, _you_ listen to _me_! The last thing he needs right now is to end up back in hospital … Fine, good, yes, I'll see you when you get here."

The conversation ended with the snap of John's phone and an eloquently delivered string of curse words that would have impressed Sherlock, had he been in the right state of mind to appreciate such a thing.

A few moments later and John was back kneeling by the side of the sofa.

Sherlock felt his pulse being taken a second time, and then the hand that took it was laid soothingly upon his shoulder. He could feel John breathing underneath the collar of his shirt, and the blanket being tucked more carefully around him…

And then it was easy, to pass from the strange in-between and into real sleep. It was as easy as breathing while John watched over him. And Sherlock heard the words that John spoke - quiet and muffled through silent tears, yet Sherlock heard them. And _felt_ them too, like quicksilver in his veins: "I'm sorry. I'm so so _sorry_, Sherlock. God. I'm here. And soon, I promise,_ soon_ you can come home. Fuck … Please don't hate me. Please…"

The throbbing pain in his head reminded Sherlock that he was sick, and that this was imaginary-John, the hallucination he was supposed to be fighting against – must have been the whole time. But the warmth in his chest and the tears in his eyes seemed to suggest that the man whose steady, warm hands were stroking the hair back from his face was very, very real indeed.

* * *

><p><em><span>AN:__ And for those of you who have been looking forward to Sherlock returning with a vengeance, get excited for chapter six. Although, there will still be a few more chapters before the matter is fully decided, one way or the other. Please let me know what you think!_


	6. Waking Up

_Author's Note: I know I haven't posted in a few days and I am very sorry. Life's just been a bit busy, what with school and all that. I'm not as pleased with this chapter as I'd like to be, which is another reason I've kept it sitting in my tray for so long. I hope you'll consider it a necessary addition to the plot and we can all move on to chapter seven happily. I haven't officially begun that chapter yet, but I have most of it written in my head so it should come along fairly quickly. That's all I have to say, really, besides thanks again for all the kind words : )_

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><p>When Sherlock opened his eyes, the pain in his head was gone. So was John. That was Sherlock Holmes's first thought that lovely April morning.<p>

_No_, his brain scolded him. _Not morning. Afternoon_.

The slant of the sunlight through the windowpanes as it fell across his sofa told Sherlock that it was approximately … 1:27 p.m. Seemingly before he could stop it, his brain took note of other physical stimuli in the room. Gears clicked and turned and popped into place. A slightly haughty, sometimes lispy voice in his brain offered up unsolicited observations in sentence fragments, then quickly filed them away for further inspection later, if the owner of said brain should require it.

There was the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen, along with blueberry – no – _blackberry_ scones. Freshly baked. Yes, one of Mycroft's favorite indulgences in times of stress, if he remembered correctly…

There was the sounds drifting in at the window – the distinctive horn of the mail truck, the tap and drag of a walker on the sidewalk as his elderly neighbor took her afternoon walk, the chirruping of the bird that had made her nest outside his window (_a Robin_, his brain clarified, _or Erithacus Rubecula, of the Muscicapidae family_).

There was the lingering taste in his mouth of tea – chamomile tea, with just a half-teaspoon of milk. Chamomile tea: John's favorite.

Whatever caged animal had been trapped inside his skull seemed to have escaped full force. His mind felt brilliantly clear, if a little rusty. His heart felt open; his lungs breathing easier; his veins pumping clean, fresh blood.

He remembered the night previous and barely contained the impulse to grin wickedly. Oh yes, Sherlock remembered. He remembered John; he remembered going through two pots of tea; he even remembered the thoughtful blanket now kicked down around his feet; but most importantly of all, he remembered John in his kitchen, agitated and pacing, yelling at someone over his mobile. Sherlock was almost certain that same someone was sitting in his kitchen at that very moment, savoring blackberry scones and coffee.

_How very like Mycroft_, the same haughty voice thought spitefully, _nibbling greedily at bakery goods while others' lives are falling apart_…

Oh yes, Sherlock knew he was going to have to play this one carefully if he hoped to avoid losing himself all over again. Very carefully indeed. Of course it all made sense _now_ – some forty hours after his last encounter with those pretty pink pills. Of course it hadn't made sense _before _– not with Mycroft pumping drugs into his system from the moment he'd been checked into the hospital. When this was all over, he would make sure to examine those pills more carefully – his inherent curiosity momentarily quashing his hate for the miserable little capsules.

Sherlock heaved himself up onto one elbow as gingerly as possible, letting out a little grown which he _hoped_ would sound confused and frightened.

As he'd predicted, Mycroft appeared at the sounds of his waking, a mug in each hand and … yes, careless crumbs there around the corners of his mouth.

"Afternoon," he purred, his eyes full of poorly veiled suspicion. "How are we feeling this morning?" His suit was a little rumpled, as if he'd just … gotten off a plane, yes, Sherlock remembered. And there was the larger-than-usual bulge in his suit pocket, obviously containing a passport and papers in addition to his wallet. The cuticles around his nails were red and irritated – Mycroft, who hated to fly – had obviously been picking at them relentlessly in a futile effort to calm his jittery nerves.

Sherlock swallowed the smile he could sense forming, took the saucer that his brother offered him and swallowed thoughtfully. "I-I don't know," he mumbled weakly, "I think I forgot to take my pills."

"I see," Mycroft frowned, "and have their been any … _side effects_ as a result of your negligence?"

_Oh please_, Sherlock thought, _don't you dare try to intimidate me now, big brother_. "Yes," he said, in tones much humbler than the ones in his head, "John was here last night. It's all … hazy, but there was no mistaking the hallucination. Please," he almost choked on the word, milking his little performance for all it might be worth. "Please help me, Mycroft. I'm sorry. I _was_ getting better, wasn't I?"

Mycroft's face was a veritable storm of conflicting emotions. The suspicion was still there, but it was fighting for dominance with a sickening look of guilt. Suspicion won over for a moment and satisfied itself with a last question: "And you remember nothing else?"

Sherlock kept steady eye contact. Eye contact was key. "No," he wished a few tears into his eyes, "H-how long have I been out?"

"Twelve and a half hours," Mycroft said, an eyebrow cocked.

But when Sherlock let the tears roll off his cheeks, pulled his knees up to his chest and put his head in his hands, the suspicion in Mycroft's face was gone. Sherlock had passed the test, and his brother came to sit beside him, tried his best to comfort him with a cautious hand on his back. Sherlock knew he was playing dirty, but if it were the only way to stop his brother forcefully drugging him again, well, the end would justify the means.

In the silence that followed, Sherlock surreptitiously glanced around the room from between his fingers, looking for clues. His eyes dusted over the bookshelves and along the mantle and into all the little hidden corners of the room. When he found the camera, he let his eyes skim right over it lest the person on the other end of the lens become suspicious.

The next few moments found Mycroft trying to calm his little brother. He explained that of course it _must_ have been a hallucination as John – real John – was in Dublin at a conference … apparently. And even though Sherlock knew better, knew that real John – his John – had been here presumably only hours ago, he couldn't help the little skip in his heart and the way his mind seemed to falter for a moment, doubting itself. He gave his head an imperceptible shake and decided he was going to be suffering the effects of those little pink pills for a while, psychologically speaking.

He would deal with that later, however. Right now there was a much, much more important game to be played.

Maybe an hour later and Sherlock recognized the little tells in his brother's face – the softening of the lines around the eyes, the slight relaxation of the jaw – that told Sherlock that he had successfully fooled his brother. Mycroft believed what he was being told – he thought Sherlock to be still firmly under his control. Phase one of Sherlock's plan – avoid Mycroft's drugs like the plague – had been completed. The brothers Holmes had met once again in a battle of wills and _this_ time it was Sherlock who emerged victorious. He didn't know whether to be pleased or disgusted that he was every big as good at lying as his brother seemed to be.

When Mycroft was gone, Sherlock curled back up onto his now-hated sofa, fully aware that he was being carefully watched. He would give it a few days – lull Mycroft into a false sense of security by his feigned compliance – before he began phase two. Sherlock remained characteristically lethargic and made sure to give the cameras no reason to doubt him. He mimed the taking of his medication in full view of his audience every evening, dutifully texted Mycroft back, and returned to the well-worn couch.

While he loathed the idea of returning to a state of physical inactivity, he managed to keep his mind active by taking prolonged retreats into his mind palace. There was, after all, quite a bit of data he had acquired since the fall that his stunted brain had not yet had time to process.

* * *

><p>Over the course of the next three days, Sherlock's brain spun into overdrive – a veritable machine, relentlessly unstoppable in its industrial efficiency. Reviewing, tagging and filing away all the evidence his drugged brain had been incapable of processing.<p>

The conversation between Mycroft and the doctor when he'd been riding a morphine high; the diluted pinkish hue of the translucent liquid in his IV drip; the way Mycroft's eyes had quickly darted to the left when he broke the news of Sherlock's illness, coupled with the tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip – classic signs of a Mycroft-lie; the sound of John's footsteps as he'd walked the hall to Sherlock's room – he had not been limping _then_; John's muffled sobs in the corridor after he'd left Sherlock to the mercy of the orderlies.

All those things that his brain might have used to solve the problem if it hadn't been bloody forcefully and intentionally handicapped. Sherlock tried to force his disgust at having been trapped inside his own head for the past seven months to the pit of his stomach. It would not do to linger over the might-have-beens. Nor would it be productive to worry over the why's. _Why_ his brother had chosen to torment him in such a strange and drastic way. _Why_ Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and the others had gone to such lengths to accommodate Mrcroft's wishes. _Why_ John had lied and left him all alone. The why's, Sherlock knew, could very well handicap him more effectively than his brother had done, and must be kept in the furthest corner of his mind until it was safe to reopen their file.

When Sherlock emerged from his mind palace on the morning of day four, he sat up on the sofa and stretched his long legs before him. He tilted his head to one side, then the other. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath through his nose, then released it through parted lips. His brain felt clearer, certainly, but still not fully recovered from the months of stagnation. He allowed himself a few moments meditation before heading for the door. Phase two would require a great deal of intellectual clarity and mental precision. It would also require some neighborly assistance from the one person, Sherlock knew, who might be persuaded to tell him the truth…


	7. A Brief Reprieve

_Author's Note: Yay for chapter seven. I am happy to announce that I am thrilled about posting this chapter for a number of reasons. For starters, I have missed Sherlock as much as you have, haha, but it's also a bit longer of a chapter and contains quite a bit of action. It's pretty emotionally-charged and finally offers some concrete answers from the man himself, Mycroft Holmes. I must warn you, I don't know how long it will take me to get chapter eight up because I don't know how I want to proceed quite yet. Anyhow, thank you everyone again for all of your wonderful reviews and subscriptions, they really make my day._

_Oh, and one last note – I've noticed a steady trend in the "hate John" direction, lol, going by your reviews. I can understand that sentiment, but I think it's important to remember that John only ever wants what's best for Sherlock, and I hope this and the next few chapters will salvage a bit of John's reputation. While he doesn't quite make an appearance in this chapter, bad-ass John Watson is coming back soon, and with a vengeance, lol, don't you worry._

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><p>"Good morning, John."<p>

To say that John Watson looked "surprised" would be doing the doctor's impressive range of emotive facial expressions a grave injustice. Lying in bed, opening his eyes to the sight of Sherlock Holmes, struggling for full wakefulness in a heap of sheets and quilt, John's face was a maelstrom of shock, horror, and something that looked very suspiciously like joy – his eyes wide, his lungs sucking in mouthfuls of air that puffed out his cheeks comically, his hands fluttering uselessly in front of his face as if he were trying to find and grab hold of any shred of reason. He was completely and totally thrown off his guard, which was, of course, precisely where Sherlock wanted him.

The taller man did not allow John to regain his footing. "I _said_, 'Good morning, John." Sherlock leaned forward a fraction of an inch. He was sitting tall and elegant in a wooden chair at the foot of John's bed, legs crossed, fingers casually steepled beneath his chin.

John swallowed hard. "I … Good morning."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. He could not quite decide if John's elevated heart rate was due to his excitement at Sherlock's reappearance or John's fear at the break-in of a could-be dangerous mental patient. Sherlock tried to shake the doubt from his head. It wouldn't do to be timid now.

"I made tea," continued Sherlock, gesturing towards the tray on the bedside table. "Unfortunately, you're out of milk…"

John nodded seriously, swallowed again, and said, "You shouldn't be here."

Sherlock let the words play over in his mind. The tone … was it an admission of Mycroft's scheme or the plea of a frightened stranger? Why couldn't John say something a little more damned _concrete_?

Sherlock nodded sagely and pointed across the room to John's dresser, changing the subject for the moment. "John," he asked, "May I ask why you've stolen my scarf?"

John bit down on his lip, hard, his eyes moving from the highly suggestive scarf and back again. "I don't… that's _my_ scarf."

Sherlock adopted his best doubtful face. "And I suppose the violin downstairs on the mantle is yours as well?"

John nodded slowly, the gears in his skull turning so noisily that Sherlock was certain he could hear them.

"Hardly," said the man at the end of the bed, "The tips of your fingers are far too soft to have recently come into contact with any stringed instrument. The truth, in this case, would have served you better than a lie."

"The truth?"

"That it belongs to a friend," Sherlock grinned cheekily.

A flush rose to the tips of John's ears. "I'm calling Mycroft."

"Please, John, he's a stranger to you, remember?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend's glaring mistakes. "If you're going to play the game, at least try and act the part. You've met him once – twice maybe? Would you really be on a first-name basis with a man as formal and stiff as my brother after only two encounters?"

John scowled. This was not supposed to happen. He'd had no time whatsoever to prepare… "Sherlock," he repeated grimly, but there was a touch of fondness in his voice, "You shouldn't be here."

Sherlock leaned forward yet more, folding his hands in his lap and letting John squirm under his knowing gaze for a moment or two. "John," he said, and the name seemed to rumble around the room a moment before settling deep in the stomach of its owner, "You will tell me what's going on."

John's eyes flickered towards the mobile on his bedside table.

"John," Sherlock repeated. It was a warning, and also a reminder that he was waiting.

"I'm serious, Sherlock," John leveled his eyes on the man, expressing a warning of his own. "Get out."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat painfully, when John continued: "If he sees you've gone, this will be the first place he'll look."

Sherlock nodded seriously – now they were getting somewhere. "Moriarty or Mycroft?"

John allowed himself a little chuckle, "Which is more frightening?"

Sherlock returned John's smile, and the shared moment seemed to send a shiver of warmth down his spine. "Mycroft," he chuckled, "Definitely."

The moment ended abruptly with the soft, insistent vibration of John's mobile. "That'll be him now," John sighed, "So please ... get out of here. Unless of course you'd like to confront him now. I've no shame in admitting that I wouldn't mind being present when-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, avoiding John's eyes, "I have a few more matters to take care of before Mycroft and I … _settle_ matters." Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose, preparing to leave, but before he could stop it, one last question demanded attention. "I trust we won't have to … play this game … a second time?"

John felt the embarrassed heat in his cheeks and the prickle of emotion in his eyes. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "I…"

"Of course," Sherlock shook his head, clearing it, "No time for that now. Give my regards to Mycroft – tell him I'll be seeing him _very soon_."

Sherlock busied himself then with standing and straightening his coat, pretending not to notice John hastily wiping at his eyes.

"I will," John smiled sadly, "Now get out."

"Of course," Sherlock nodded, and walked meaningfully towards John's dresser. His smile as he retrieved his scarf and tied it about his neck was brilliant, beaming, and a little frightening. "The genius is in the details," he said, offering a lopsided smirk, and John laughed out loud.

And just like that, just like … the first time, they were a team again.

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><p>John was sitting at his kitchen table, waiting for the kettle to boil. The tea Sherlock had made was, predictably, foul beyond words. Mycroft was currently pacing back and forth, tapping his neat shoes on the kitchen tile, shooting John murderous looks. John sighed as they went through the interrogation process.<p>

"I am far from stupid, Dr. Watson. I think you know that, so please do not condescend to treating me so."

"Mycroft, he really wasn't-"

"Yes," Mycroft interrupted in that soft, deadly tone that was his wont. "Yes he was. Now, tell me … where has he gone? What have you told him? Have you ruined _everything_ I've tried to do?" Mycroft had stopped pacing by the end, facing John across the table and punctuating the word 'everything' with a powerful fist on the table.

John trembled for a moment along with the upset china, then set his jaw and said, much more bravely than he felt: "It was a bloody awful plan in the first place, Mycroft."

Mycroft snorted and fiddled with a teaspoon – tiny and fragile in his long fingers. "_Bloody awful_," he repeated, mocking. "Indeed. And yet you knew it was necessary. You did _know_ that, John, when it all began."

John shook his head stolidly. "No, I let you frighten me into it, I-"

"Hardly," Mycroft interrupted, "What were your exact words? Oh yes, I remember. 'Please Mycroft,' you said, 'Whatever you need to do, just keep him safe'."

"Well I didn't know-"

"What didn't you know?" Mycroft hissed, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "That it would require patience? That it would be _difficult_?"

"No," John shook his head, determined not to let Mycroft get to him, "I knew it would be both. But it's been _seven months_, Mycroft! Surely you've got them all by now?"

Mycroft smiled, but it was patronizingly cruel. "Got all the bad guys by now? How nice it must be to live inside that naïve little head of yours, doctor."

John clenched his jaw and tried to remember that the man across from him was, in actual fact, on the same side as he was. That Mycroft was only being this hard because he was protecting the only person he cared about – the same as John was.

"These are not petty criminals we're dealing with, John," Mycroft continued. "These are tightly organized, highly dangerous criminal syndicates. James Moriarty may indeed be dead, but he left behind him more than a dozen disappointed associates. In fact, my dear brother would probably be safer if Moriarty were still alive – a fact I'm sure had not escaped the man himself."

John sat up straighter in his chair.

"Now," Mycroft sighed wearily, "_Now_, all those rouge governments, terror cells, intelligence communities – everyone who had been fighting each other to gain Moriarty's favor – have a new objective. Can you guess what that objective is, _doctor_?"

John rolled his eyes, tired of being ridiculed.

Without waiting for an answer, Mycroft continued slowly, indulgently. "Their new objective, their new favorite _game_, Dr. Watson, is find Sherlock Holmes."

All this John knew, of course. He had been informed and persuaded and convinced. He had spent sleepless nights going over the mantra of reasons for the last seven months. And yet…

"It was the _only option_, John," Mycroft said, reading John's thoughts on his face. He had his hands in his pockets and he looked almost contrite. "Tell me," he mused, "Would you have been able to keep Sherlock restrained – forced to lie low in a safe house for months? Perhaps abroad, in a hotel room – no cases, no work – just a bored Sherlock Holmes who you were personally responsible for keeping within the confines of four walls?"

John cringed at the thought, but said, "But you could have used him. He could have cleaned this all up twenty times faster than your people."

Mycroft laughed ecstatically, "Yes," he cooed, "Absurdly loyal, as ever. But you wouldn't have put Sherlock in danger any more readily than I would, John, and you _know_ it would have been dangerous. Even for Sherlock Holmes…"

"Yes, but-"

"Besides," Mycroft cut off, casually checking his pocket watch. "It was out of my hands. The enemies Sherlock has recently acquired are not rational men. They are desperate. The moment nuclear missiles were aimed at Britain, the second trained assassins were shipped over by the hundreds … well, the powers that be decided it was a matter of national security. I was to find a way to keep Sherlock out of sight and out of mind until the problem could be dealt with … or the British government would find a way to do so for me. And trust me when I say, John, they do not consider Sherlock a friend…"

John drummed his fingers against the table. Mycroft rolled his eyes, frustrated that John could not understand what was so very _obvious_.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, did you have a better solution you failed to mention?" Could you have single-handedly protected my brother from legions of terrorists, spies, and murderers?"

John stood his ground. "I would have tried."

Mycroft smiled sadly, wondering almost jealously how his brother – his arrogant, impossible brother – had ever managed to find such a friend. "I'm afraid you would," he chuckled, "which is, of course, why _I_ do the planning."

John bristled, forgetting that he was not supposed to have seen Sherlock. "Well it's over now. He knows, and you're going to have to tell him the truth."

Mycroft's face went very still. John shivered at the calculating intensity of Mycroft's gaze. "Unfortunately, John, it is not yet time to tell Sherlock anything. A few more weeks and we could have put all of this behind us."

"A few more weeks?" John felt the beginnings of something like hope blooming in his chest.

"Yes, a few more weeks. We were so very, very close, John, and you had to go and mess it all up because you couldn't just let my brother believe the lie."

John felt his fingers form fists.

Mycroft continued icily. "I asked you for a simple favor. On Tuesday I asked you to check up on him – that was all – not spend the night giggling like a pair of school girls. Fourteen hours I was gone, and you managed to ruin everything. Now, I am afraid, more drastic measures must be taken."

"No," John shook his head, letting Mycroft's insults pass right through him, "No. If it's only a few more weeks, he can come home. I'll watch him day and night, I swear. He'll listen to me – surely I can convince him of how important it is just to-"

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft stood abruptly, "You have no further part in this. It is because of you that we are in this position to begin with."

John tried to protest, but Mycroft cut him off. "You and I want the same thing, John, but unfortunately, you have neither the ability nor the willpower to achieve it. You will stay here and wait for me to contact you."

John stood up too. "What will you do now?"

Mycroft's face seemed to be chiseled of stone in that moment. "The medication has failed. What else can a concerned family member do when a loved one is a danger to himself and others? Sherlock Holmes will have to be committed."

John felt ice in his veins. "Mycroft Holmes, I swear-" he began angrily.

"Dr. Watson, you _will_ control yourself."

John glowered in Mycroft's direction. "I won't let you. This has messed him up enough already, can't you see that?"

"But he's not dead, is he?"

"Please, just let me-"

Mycroft fastened the buttons on his jacket and looked down on John from his full height. "You will do _nothing_, John, do you understand?"

John kept silent and still.

"Do not make me detain you as an enemy of the state, Dr. Watson."

And then he was gone. And John sat quietly, because there was no out-talking the man whose career was based upon his diplomacy skills. John bit his tongue and closed his eyes and tried to not to let the image of Sherlock – triumphant and smiling – interfere with his determination to not ruin everything a second time. He had been foolish, of course, to let Sherlock leave him this morning. The very idea that his friend was out on the streets – completely vulnerable and unaware of the dangers that surrounded him – made John sick to his stomach.

Mycroft wouldn't have made such a stupid mistake. Of course it was a good thing that Mycroft, and not John, was responsible for Sherlock's safety. Because John knew – as Mycroft obviously knew – that Sherlock in danger made John see red. And one angry doctor with an army-issue revolver could certainly not get the better of legions of Sherlock's enemies – both foreign and domestic. So John sat quiet and let Mycroft do what he needed to do. He would wait, and as he sat in the window to watch Mycroft drive away, he bitterly wished he had been rationed his own share of pretty pink mind-obliterating pills.

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><p><em><span>AN: So how much do you hate Mycroft? Haha, that's what I thought._

_I was so excited to share this chapter with you – please do let me know what you think!_


	8. Role Reversal

_Author's Note__: Oh yes, finally the redemption of John Hamish Watson. I think we've all had quite enough of Mycroft's bossing him around and breaking his sweet little heart, so it's definitely time for John to make a stand. This chapter is a little longer than usual but I really couldn't find anything I wanted to omit, so please do bear with the length haha. I don't have much to say other than thank you so very much for the kind reviews and please enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think and chapter nine should be up soon – with a guest appearance by Molly Hooper, so that'll be exciting, haha. See you soon : )_

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><p>It was only two weeks that John had to wait before receiving Mycroft's call. His heart nearly broke for joy when he saw the name on the screen of his mobile that Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately for Dr. Watson, however, the news was not <em>at all<em> what he had been expecting.

After a few moments' verbally venting his frustrations over the wire, John agreed to meet Mycroft at the hospital. It was a long car ride through an overcast London, and an even longer walk down the fluorescent-flooded corridors of the psychiatric ward. John felt goose bumps rise on his arms as he watched the wretched men and women of St. Mary's ramble aimlessly, led by their respective caretakers, looking out into the nothingness before their eyes. Anthea led John along to what must have been the very heart of the building, where they took a lift down an astounding seven storeys into the basement.

Mycroft was waiting for them in what appeared to be the only room on the floor. The lift opened directly out onto a small observation corridor, from which only one steel door opened. The walls were all white, but aside from the antiseptic hospital-feel, the room might have been comfortable. There was a simple four-poster bed, a medium-sized mahogany dresser, a writing desk with paper and pens.

Mycroft was sitting ramrod straight on the bed, and he dismissed Anthea as soon as she announced John's entrance. Once his employee had gone, Mycroft let his shoulders slump and put his head in his hands. John let him wallow for a moment before gingerly plucking one of the gorgeous fountain pens from the desk, poking the tip into the soft skin of his thumb. "I thought crazy people weren't supposed to have things like this?" he mused, titling his head to the side and gesturing the pen. "You know, sharp objects and whatnot."

Mycroft sighed and walked over to John, taking the pen from him and replacing it on the desk. "This room is under twenty-four hour surveillance," he gestured the two-way mirrors, "as it's guests require a certain degree more … _specialized_ care."

"Special care?" John quirked an eyebrow.

Mycroft smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, "Privilege," he clarified, "that the ordinary inmates of St. Mary's do not merit."

John laughed scornfully. "Ah," he said, "so this is the celebrity ward?"

Mycroft's smile melted away. "In a manner of speaking," he confirmed in his classic deadpan tones.

John looked around the room, trying to imagine Sherlock spending the last fourteen days of his life in this place. If he managed to block out the image of Sherlock pacing restlessly, or the image of Sherlock being injected with medications he did not need or want, then it wasn't really all that bad … but of course, these things were impossible to block out.

"What happened, Mycroft?" John sighed heavily.

Mycroft sighed again. He looked down at his shoes, up to the pens on the desk, into the two-way mirror. When finally he spoke, his voice was monotone and defeated. "I don't know," he admitted. "That's why I've called you. I don't know how he got out and I don't know where he's gone now."

John shook his head, disgusted. "But you got him back on the medication. When he was medicated at the house, he was completely-"

"Compliant," Mycroft agreed, "Docile, yes. But apparently that trick only works once. His brain had since gotten hold of the truth and, seemingly, overrode the drugs. We upped the dosage as high as possible without risking … permanent damage, and it seemed to be working. He wasn't as lethargic as he was at the house, but he was most definitely not the old Sherlock. He showed no signs of remembering anything, and yet…" Mycroft trailed off, letting John put the rest together in his head: and yet Sherlock had been faking … again.

If the situation hadn't been so desperate, John might have laughed at Sherlock's ability to dupe his brother twice in exactly the same manner. Instead he asked: "So he's still got the drugs in his system?"

Mycroft nodded sadly, "His last dose was barely two hours ago. It's dangerous, John, very dangerous. He needs to be monitored. There is no telling what the effects of those drugs could have on his mind. They are meant to do a number of things, including suppress memory and curb intelligence. Sherlock's brain functions are off the charts in terms of performance and speed. This did not matter when the sedatives in the pills were effectively sapping his desire to act against them – when his brain was essentially dormant. All of that has since changed."

John shook his head, "Mycroft, what does that _mean_?"

"It means that Sherlock's brain has been under unimaginable strain for the last two weeks. It means his mind has been doing constant battle with the chemicals in the drugs, overworking itself to try and function normally. It means that he could stroke at any moment."

John let out a forceful breath through his nose. He shook his head. He paced. He looked into the two-way mirror and noticed its smudges; tried not to imagine the way Sherlock's fists might have caused those smudges as his friend pounded against the glass.

"And you have no idea how he got out?"

Mycroft shrugged. "The nurse on duty was found unconscious – Sherlock stole the security tapes."

Mycroft watched John closely. He knew the man was close to the edge – he was practically humming with the vibration of pent-up rage – and dangerously close to losing control.

"Do you know," John's voice was little more than a whisper, "that I trusted you to take care of him?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered, his eyes following John's pacing progress back and forth across the room.

"You told me I was 'ill-equipped' to be in charge of Sherlock's safety."

"Yes."

"But I believed you – I let you continue with your bloody scheming because you have the mighty Holmes brain and the resources of a world power at your fingertips."

"Yes. I know."

"But _you're_ the one," John spun on his heel to face Mycroft, his face contorted with wrath, "You're the one that's committed him, drugged him, _ruined_ him – and now he's out there somewhere, pumped full of a drug you don't really understand the consequences of, completely unaware of the dangers, heading for God-knows-where, and-"

"I _know_, John!" Mycroft interrupted, and his voice cracked. "I _know_ I was … wrong. Why do you think I've brought you here?"

John shrugged, feeling suddenly exhausted beyond words.

"I need your help."

John blanched for a moment, then boiled over. "Oh, _now_ you need my help!" he screamed, and Mycroft let him. "Now you need _my_ help – after _you've_ fucked everything so completely that Sherlock could very well be _dead_ right now?"

"Yes," Mycroft intoned softly, but his words were deadly serious, "that is _precisely_ why I need your help now."

John Watson wanted to keep hating Mycroft – he really, _really_ did – but there was too little time for lasting antipathy with Sherlock in danger. No, what John needed was a way to feel all that anger – to go through the spectrum of negative emotions – in one quick and clean step. Catharsis: that was the important thing. A way to express to the arrogant sod across from him _exactly_ what he thought of him so that they could move on to what really mattered: finding Sherlock and making him safe.

And it was perhaps a little odd that Mycroft was less surprised than John himself when the taller man was suddenly sprawled on the floor, both hands pressing perfectly-manicured fingertips to his shattered nose, gasping for breath as he choked on the blood that ran between his lips.

It had done the trick, seemingly – John went from shaking rage to something curiously like remorse in seconds. He gasped at the damage he had done and put his hands out in front of him in a gesture of contrition. "I'm – oh, hell, Mycroft – I didn't mean-"

Mycroft looked up at John from his cold seat on the floor. "Impressive, doctor," he mumbled, tilting his head back to staunch the flow of blood. "Would you mind retrieving the handkerchief from the left breast-pocket of my jacket?"

John hurried across the room and returned with the desired object. He watched Mycroft pull up to his knees, wiping the blood around his face rather than actually cleaning any of it away. There was simply too much of it.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "It's not…?"

"Oh yes," Mycroft chuckled, "it is most definitely broken."

John felt a little prick of self-satisfaction despite his guilt. "Mycroft-"

"It's quite alright, John," Mycroft cringed as he poked at his nose, "I would expect nothing less.

John waited in silence until the blood flow had ebbed and Mycroft sat back on the bed, shiny blood soaking the front of his shirt. John waited until Mycroft could return to business mode, and he did not have long to wait.

"Now," said the elder Holmes after a moment to compose himself, "I have my people looking, of course, and I can-"

John shook his head incredulously, "Your people? I thought you needed _my_ help?"

Mycroft looked confused, "I thought you might know where he'd gone…"

"You know very well I haven't heard a word for two weeks. You've got my phone tapped, remember?"

Mycroft couldn't have looked less embarrassed by this accusation. "Yes, well, I knew he hadn't been in _contact_ with you. But you know my brother better than anyone. Where would he go? If you would just cooperate in giving us some ideas, I can have him picked up and back safe immediately."

"No," John said stoutly, "call your people off. If … _when_ we find Sherlock, nobody's going near him but me. He's coming home with _me_."

"John-" Mycroft began, and his tone was disapproving.

"Fuck off, Mycroft Holmes."

"John!"

"He's going to be angry, Mycroft!" John insisted. "And he's going to be bloody scared. He may even damn well be _actually_ crazy after all you've put him through. He doesn't need your goons man-handling him back into some prison."

"My brother is far too smart for prison," Mycroft tutted disapprovingly. "He could break out of the highest-security institution in the country. In fact, he already has – precisely two hours ago. That's why we had enlisted the use of the drugs-"

"And _definitely_," John pointed a threatening finger in Mycroft's direction, "no more drugs."

"Then what do you suggest we do with him for the next five days?"

John's breath caught for a moment, "Five days?"

Mycroft sighed, as if he'd once again said something he shouldn't have. "Indeed," he admitted, "But you don't need to know anything more than this: in five days operatives _should_ be eliminating the last of Sherlock's countless … friends. There are, of course, still some minor threats – but we've taken care of all the big fish, as it were."

"Mycroft," John argued, "that's only _five days_ – that's one-hundred and twenty hours. I can keep him contained that long."

John saw the protest storming behind Mycroft's eyes and so continued before Mycroft could vocalize any argument to the contrary. "Shut up," he said irritably, "it's not your call, this time. It's mine."

Mycroft floundered, swallowed, picked at the dried blood on his fingers. "You are certain he'll listen to you? You seem to forget, Dr. Watson, _you've_ lied to him too."

John swallowed the urge to punch Mycroft a second time. "Yes, but I'm a much, much worse liar than you. Sherlock knows that. It might take a little while, but he'll trust me again. _You_, on the other hand, he'll never-"

John stopped abruptly when he realized what he had been about to say, but the look on Mycroft's face told John that the damage had been done. Mycroft knew what John had wanted to say, and he had already accepted it. Mycroft did not protest. What he said instead, after a small smile and a shake of the head, was both sweet and immeasurably sad.

"How silly we both are," Mycroft sighed, "fighting over who loves him more, when you should already be out looking for him."

John watched Mycroft's bloodied face, and felt worse than he'd ever done.

"John," Mycroft continued, "You are quite right, you know, even if you're too kind to say it out loud. He _doesn't_ trust me. And I _am_ a heartless monster."

"Mycroft-"

"But you must know," Mycroft continued over John's protests, "that I am more than willing to make those sacrifices – his trust, my humanity – it if means that he is safe. You … you can understand that, can't you?"

John almost smiled. Almost. He knew Mycroft needed reassurance, perhaps more than he ever had. But John couldn't give it – not now, perhaps not ever. He wasn't a saint, and he could feel nothing but anger and a disgusted sort of pity for the man who sat before him. He knew he could feel nothing else for Mycroft Holmes until Sherlock was home, and safe, and … home.

John squared his shoulders and said pathetically, "You should probably see a doctor about your nose."

Mycroft nodded and watched John move towards the exit. John stopped in the doorway to issue one last initiative: "And I don't want to hear from you until this is all over, understood?"

Mycroft tensed. Never before had he voluntarily surrendered his brother's care to another – up until this moment, no one else had proved themselves worthy of the honor. He nodded his consent. "You _will_ text me when he's safe, though, won't you John?"

John nodded solemnly, though he dearly wished Mycroft could experience just an ounce of the uncertainly he himself had suffered over the past months.

And then John was gone, and Mycroft sat limp on the hard floor of an insane asylum, his lips and chin caked in his own dried blood. He didn't think he had ever quite realized how absolutely horrid it felt to be so miserably, pathetically useless.

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><p><em><span>AN__: So yay for John finally putting his killer right-hook to good use, but I do hope you feel just the slightest twinge of pity for Mycroft. Haven't yet decided if he'll be forgiven in the end – though, I suppose that depends on what state John finds Sherlock in…_


	9. Coming Home

_Author's Note: Sooooooo, I am truly, truly sorry about the delay on this chapter. I'm currently working on my undergraduate senior thesis (in which our very own Sherlock Holmes actually plays a starring role), and I realized only last week that I am rapidly approaching the thesis deadline - and one cannot write a forty page paper overnight, hehe. So anyway, that is my pathetic excuse. But in apology I've written you an extra long, extra sweet chapter. I suppose I should warn that this chapter also comes dangerously close to what some would like to call "slash" - nothing definitive, of course, but it could definitely be taken that way. If you are not a fan of this sort of thing, please look at the intimacy of our boys' reunion as merely plutonic (it can absolutely be taken that way). If you _are_ a fan of that sort of thing, hehe, fantasize away. I enjoy writing ambiguously to please all camps lol. Finally, a big round of applause to Ms. Molly Hooper, who plays the damsel in distress wonderfully. Now, please enjoy this chapter, as I've absolutely loved writing it for you, and leave me a few words in review, as reviews are actually my lifeblood._

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><p>When John stepped out the doors of St. Mary's, leaving Mycroft behind him, he felt as light as a feather. It wasn't happiness, necessarily, and he didn't feel "light" in that he felt carefree. It was more a giddy sort of high – a manic energy, like a coffee buzz – that left him jittery and light-headed. They were close now, oh so close – to catching the bad guys, to having Sherlock home, to restoring some semblance of sanity.<p>

Outside of St. Mary's it was still raining, and the April air felt stuffy and temperate. John took three deeps breaths of the thick air, trying to ground himself, and hailed a taxi. Almost immediately, he began to doubt the wisdom of having taken on this new responsibility – in making himself Sherlock's one-man search-and-rescue. Sherlock, the one man who had necessitated the entirety of Mycroft's concentrated efforts for the past seven months – the one man who would _not_, under any circumstances, be found if he did not want to be found. John's stomach did some uncomfortable somersaults as he tried not to imagine what the consequences of his failure might be.

The sky outside was getting darker and a little greener as the rain pounded harder on the roof of the cab. John tried to run through what he thought might be his friend's objectives at this point. John knew that Sherlock would want to confront Mycroft … _eventually_, but that he would not do so without incontrovertible evidence proving his own sanity. Unfortunately, they did not have the leisure to wait for Sherlock's triumphant reappearance – forces both external and internal were currently working towards the great detective's destruction.

John thought briefly about simply texting him – telling him that Mycroft had surrendered and that John could explain everything if Sherlock would only meet him back home. He was halfway through typing the message when he realized that it was no good. Sherlock had been lied to too frequently and too recently to trust anything that John said now. Besides, any mention of Mycroft would probably chase Sherlock even further away.

So, John thought, if he were Sherlock, how would he go about proving his sanity? How and where would he collect the data he would need to prove his stability and thwart Mycroft's schemes? John bit his tongue as his brain rolled over the possibilities, tried to remember what kind of a person he was dealing with. Sherlock was a genius. A detective. A scientist. Yes, a scientist. And how would a scientist go about disproving someone else's faulty theory? By recreating every experiment Mycroft had staged to prove Sherlock's insanity in the first place. And what had been Mycroft's first and most potent experiment? He had deconstructed Sherlock's former life by providing evidence that the people in the detective's life were not, in fact, a part of his life at all. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. It seemed likely that Sherlock would seek these people out and demand the truth, the same as he'd done with John two weeks ago. But whom would he approach first? John groaned in the back seat of the cab, completely torn, and feeling helpless.

So caught up in his musings was John, that he almost did not hear the text beep its arrival on his mobile. When he saw Mycroft's name, he swore under his breath. Had the elder Holmes changed his mind already? But the message that followed was both a relief and a source of new anxieties:

_Received the following from Ms. Hooper. I will uphold my end of our bargain and refrain from interfering, but proceed with caution and I will expect to hear from you within the hour. MH._

Another message was linked to his own, a forward from Molly:

_He's here. Acting very strange. What do I do? Molly._

And a second, a few moments after the first:

_Mr. Holmes? Please come quickly. I'm afraid._

John's eyebrows came together violently. Afraid? Molly was _afraid_ of Sherlock? Certainly Sherlock could be more than frightening at times, but he was usually quite kind towards Molly. Whether it was pity, gratitude, or friendship – Sherlock had always been oddly protective of Molly Hooper. She and Mrs. Hudson were two of the few people who could boast this honor. John shook his head and redirected the cabbie towards St. Bart's.

By the time the cabbie swung around to the front of the hospital, fifteen minutes had elapsed. The rain was now coming down in sheets and John's hands were shaking with nerves as tight as a tripwire. He threw a handful of bills at the back of the cabbie's head and wasted no time in sprinting towards the lab. Though he had no idea what his expectations _should_ have been, the reality of the situation was shocking.

He heard them before he saw them. A man's voice – Sherlock's voice – immeasurably different from the one he'd used in John's bedroom two weeks ago when he'd smiled and said: "The genius is in the details". The voice Sherlock was using now was completely foreign. Even during their past cases, the tone that Sherlock had been wont to use to frighten criminals and murderers was only intimidating in its intensity and arrogance. The voice John heard now was terrifying. It was deep and angry over a mad desperation – demanding information, seemingly, and … yes, he was actually _threatening_ Molly. His words were echoing down the long hallway and John sprinted beneath the hanging fluorescents to reach his destination.

When John finally spun around the corner, stopping dead in the doorway, chest heaving, hair dripping rainwater into his eyes, he gasped.

The lab was a disaster. Vials and test tubes had been shattered on the tile, various equipment was knocked over, and papers were scattered like snow.

Molly Hooper, white as a sheet, was crouched on the floor and huddled against the far wall. One hand was raised in protection; the other was on the ground, supporting her, and bleeding from where she'd cut it – presumably on the broken glass all over the floor. Sherlock was towering over her, shouting down at her, his hair wildly disarranged and his eyes bloodshot and wild.

Molly saw John first and her eyes widened in a silent plea for help. When Sherlock noticed her diverted attention, he swiveled on the spot and gaped at John. His hands were shaking and John noticed that his lips were tinted blue. But the rage on his face melted away when he saw John, to be replaced by something that looked like confusion – an expression John did not think he had ever seen on his friend's face before.

When Sherlock did not speak, John took a cautious step forward and extended his hands in a steadying gesture. Sherlock mirrored his movement by taking a step backwards, away from John. He was taking quick, shallow breaths through his nose and his eyes were darting from Molly to John and back again, as if he'd only just become aware of where he was and the world around him.

"Sherlock…?" John breathed, taking another step.

Sherlock took another step backwards and hit the wall. He flattened his palms against the cement behind him as he came to the realization that he was trapped.

"I…" he began, but could not finish. John watched as Sherlock's silver eyes flew over the broken glass and rubbish in the room. "I…" he tried again, "I needed to test the pills…"

John kept his hands up, taking slow and tentative steps. "It's okay," he said as kindly as he could, "It's fine."

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the little pink pills, offering them to John in the palm of his hand. Proof.

"Yes," John whispered, "I see, Sherlock, I see."

Sherlock's cloudy eyes looked towards the pills and back up to meet John's eyes, slowly, stupidly. "They are … they contain …" he tried, frustrated that he could not come up with an answer. John saw the strain and the exhaustion in Sherlock's face.

"Don't worry about that now," he said, shaking his head sadly, "we can figure it out later."

Sherlock looked back at the pills before refocusing his attention on Molly. The young lady drew in a breath but remained perfectly still. Sherlock pointed at her with his free hand and looked back at John. "See?" he said, swaying a little on the spot. "Molly doesn't live in Edinburgh."

John nodded. "No, she lives here, you're right. Don't worry, Sherlock, I'm going to explain everything, but we need to-"

"Then why did she _lie_?" he demanded, his voice a shadow of the rage it had been moments before. John saw Molly shiver somewhere in his periphery.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked from her perch on the floor.

Sherlock's eyes darted back down towards her, but John distracted him by quickly saying: "And _I'm_ sorry."

Sherlock's eyes softened again when he refocused on John. "Sorry? Why?"

John sighed, continuing his inching progress forward. "Because you came to me for help, remember? But I wasn't able to help you – I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry."

"I…" Sherlock's voice was getting softer, he was shaking more violently. "Help, when?"

John paused as his foot caught on something. He smiled softly and bent down to pick it up, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock. He offered the scarf to his friend cautiously, "You came to see me, do you remember? Two weeks ago. Here, Sherlock, take it. This is yours."

Sherlock eyed the scarf suspiciously for a moment, before reaching out and running his fingers over the fabric. "Yes…" he said slowly, "it is." John jumped as Sherlock snatched the scarf greedily.

"Good," John smiled indulgently, "good."

"Why are you here, John?"

John was still calculating his response when Sherlock continued: "Why am _I _here, John?"

John sighed. "You're just … you've just been ill. But-but you're going to be better now. We're going to go home."

"Home where?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and his eyes seemed to wander.

"Baker Street," John frowned. "I'm going to take you home and put you to bed. And then … and then tomorrow morning, everything will be better, do you understand?"

Sherlock's eyes continued to wander over the damage in the room. His eyes fell on Molly again but the anger didn't return. He frowned instead, and when he looked back to John he said, "Not good," and it wasn't a question.

John nodded. "No, not very good at all."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, and he wasn't apologizing to Molly; he was apologizing to John. He sounded for all the world like a child who had been caught having broken something expensive of Mummy's.

"No no," John breathed, "it's quite alright. Here," he extended a hand, "will you come with me now? We need to get you home. It's … safer at home. I'll make you some tea – what do you say?"

Sherlock's frown deepened and he stumbled a bit. "John…" he whispered, "I don't feel good, John…"

John took the last step and steadied his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Sit," he offered, "can you sit for a moment?"

Sherlock slid down the wall, letting his long legs stretch out before him. His head lolled about and the pills spilled out of his hand and onto the floor. John crouched beside him and let his hands assume the work of a physician. His fingers found Sherlock's pulse, weak and fluttering, and the back of his hand felt Sherlock's cool, clammy forehead.

John patted Sherlock's hand warmly and left him for a moment to see to Molly. He didn't know what to say. His throat felt dry and his head was swimming. But Molly shook her head quickly, "You need to get him home," she said seriously, urgently waving away John's hands. "I'll be fine."

John swallowed. "I'm going to text Stamford to come and get you," he said firmly. "I want you to stay right where you are until he gets here. You may go into shock, and I need you to-"

"John," Molly chuckled, "you forget I'm a doctor too."

John chuckled. "Right, post-mortems."

"I can take care of myself," she reaffirmed.

John nodded. "Alright," he said, but he lingered. "Take care of your hand, and text as soon as you're home, and-"

"John?" Sherlock called, his voice cracking on the single word.

John took in a sharp breath and looked back at Molly.

"Go on, John," she frowned, "please. I'm worried about him."

John patted Molly's hand, sighed and said, "We'll talk soon."

* * *

><p>Inside the cab, Sherlock held on to only the thinnest thread of consciousness. He would alternately rest his head against the seat and on John's shoulder. Sometimes he reached up to trace the raindrops on the foggy window. Sometimes he mumbled things – fragments of his life over the last seven months, an existence that didn't make sense to him now. "John," he would say, "I don't like cats. They make me sneeze." Or, "Dr. Maggie was nice, and her sitar music was pretty, but I'm quite sure she was a closeted lesbian". He even grinned rather wickedly once and said, "You know, you left your blinds open at night John, and you really shouldn't do that … you never know who could be watching you."<p>

John let these ramblings go without comment. It seemed that as long as he kept in some sort of physical contact – holding his hand, or letting him lean on his shoulder – Sherlock remained docile and, frankly, the sound of his voice was soothing to John, even if it was all rubbish.

John kept quiet and tried to convince himself that Sherlock's mental wanderings were a temporary state. That a strong cup of tea, a good night's sleep, and the gradual wearing off of the drugs would restore Sherlock to his former self. That it was just the shock talking now, making no sense, and transforming his friend into a simpleton. John wanted to text Mycroft, but his constant attention on Sherlock seemed to be the only thing keeping his friend on the right side of a mental breakdown. If he looked away, or checked his watch, Sherlock would frown and his entire face would become a maelstrom of confusion and frustration. He was hovering somewhere around the emotional and mental maturity of a three year old – completely lost without John's constant approval and guidance.

When they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock sat quietly on the sofa and allowed John to undress him. First his shoes, his coat, then his shirt, all soaking wet and cold to the touch. The rain was still pattering on the rooftop, but the grey light bleeding in through the living room curtains was far less menacing than it had been when John had first arrived at St. Bart's. It was just after John had unbuttoned his friend's shirt and had him leaning forward so he could peel the damp thing off Sherlock's shoulders, that Sherlock asked, his lips dangerously close to John's ear: "Was it something I did wrong?"

John paused for only a moment before coming away with Sherlock's shirt balled in his fist. This was not the silly rambling of the taxi ride. Sherlock's eyes were still far away, and his demeanor was still childish, but the question was serious and John swallowed before answering. "What do you mean, '_was it something you did'_? What did you do?"

Sherlock frowned at John, almost in the old way that used to say '_Please try and keep up_'. He repeated, "Was it something I did wrong? Did you stay away because you were angry with me?"

John gaped, but Sherlock continued speaking over his would-be protests.

"I know I'm … _difficult_. I understand why you and Mycroft would want to try and fix me."

John swallowed again and the lump that went down felt like it was made of lead. It settled in his stomach heavily and seemed to make breathing difficult. "No," he began. "Of course not," he tried. But nothing seemed to work. When Sherlock just continued to stare blankly at him, John inhaled and leaned forward to wrap his arms around his friend.

The embrace, which had startled them both at first, soon became comforting in a way John had not expected. Soon Sherlock's breathing was even against the place where John's shoulder met his neck, and John's fingers were holding the back of Sherlock's head against him, entwining themselves in wet curls.

"John…?" Sherlock asked after almost four full minutes.

John sighed and straightened up. He didn't bother to wipe away his tears. He realized that Sherlock was still waiting for an answer – that the embrace had been more for John's own comfort than Sherlock's. He shook his head sadly. "You're perfect," he said, before a proper response could form, "You don't need fixing."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirked.

John held Sherlock's shoulders firmly in his hands and said, "It's the rest of us that are broken, not you. You're perfect. I would … _kill_ anyone who'd try to change you."

Sherlock continued staring expressionlessly. John could see the lucidity of the last few moments fleeing his friend's face quickly. The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up just slightly – the beginning of a smile – before he shook his head and slumped his shoulders. "I'm tired, John."

John let his hands drop to his lap, where he pulled Sherlock's fingers to him and pressed them tightly. "Yes," he said, "of course you are. Are you hungry at all?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Right," John said, "first thing tomorrow, then."

Sherlock nodded, and John marveled still at how Sherlock let himself be led by the hand like a toddler through the flat, into the bedroom, and under the covers. John sat on the bed, smoothed the duvet, felt Sherlock's forehead, brushed his friend's hair back, and said seriously, "In the morning we're going to have a cup of tea and we can talk, okay? In the morning, you're going to feel so much better."

Sherlock nodded wearily.

"I'm going to be here in case you need _anything_, do you understand? If you wake up, just call. If you get hungry, if you feel cold, I'll be right in the living room, okay?"

Sherlock nodded again, and then he asked, quietly, barely a whisper: "John, this _is_ my home, isn't it? I belong here?"

Without a moment's hesitation, John leant down and pressed his lips against Sherlock's forehead. "Yes," he said, "This is precisely where you belong."

When Sherlock didn't respond, John pulled the duvet up to Sherlock's chin and said, "It will all start to make sense again. You'll see. Let's just start with a good night's sleep, yeah?"

But Sherlock persisted sleepily. "How do you know I'm not really crazy, John?" He yawned. "Sometimes I _feel_ crazy. _Today_ I felt crazy. I still feel…"

John shook his head, cutting Sherlock off. "No no no," he said softly, "You're going to have to trust me on this one. I know you for real, remember? One hundred percent." John put his hand on the side of Sherlock's face, letting the warmth in his fingers speak volumes. "This is real."

Sherlock nodded hazily, and John watched his eyes flutter closed suddenly. He stayed still for a moment or two, waiting to see if Sherlock would stir again, perhaps with more questions. But the man was soon snoring, and John was able to tiptoe back to the living room.

John fell into his chair and ran both hands over his face. The flat was quiet and still, and John felt as if he were drowning in exhaustion. It took every last drop of energy he had to extract his mobile, skim over the last three hours' worth of Mycroft's angry messages, and rattle off one of his own:

_We're home. Sherlock not dead. Stay away._

* * *

><p><em><span>AN: So, what do we think? Did John find Sherlock too late? Will our favorite consulting detective make a full recovery? Do we enjoy simple-Sherlock (he does seem much more affectionate like that), and shall I keep him around for a few more chapters? Please let me know, and I will do by best to accommodate your wishes in the next installment : )_


	10. Beginnings and Endings

_Author's Note__: Hello there everyone. Here's the deal – as I said last time, I have an astronomical work load right now what with the end of semester and my honors thesis (which, thank you __**chironsgirl**__ for asking!, is a focus on how the nineteenth century city transformed Victorian literature to include themes of voyeurism, deviant sexuality, and monstrosity - I use Jekyll and Hyde, the Sherlock Holmes canon, and Dorian Gray as my primary literary sources). That is, of course, the abridged version, lol, if you're interested just PM me – I'm a huge nerd for this stuff and could definitely be convinced to discuss it in further detail._

_But I digress – the point is, I'm very busy right now and I unfortunately must admit that if I try to post again before my real work is done, it will be "slap-dash at best", in the words of our dear Holmes. Therefore, I am taking a brief hiatus from this story and all others until graduation (May 6__th__). I know, I know, it's going to kill me too. But I just cannot afford any distractions right now, so I thought I'd give you a heads-up. In recompense, I have written you a long-ish chapter and included a bit of foreshadowing at the end (which I usually do not do), so that you may spend the next four weeks fantasizing lol. Having said that – adieu, dear friends, and I will return as soon as I possibly can!_

* * *

><p>It took John a few moments to be sure where exactly he was. It had, after all, been such a long time since he'd woken up in his old bed at Baker Street. It was odd, at first, the feel of his old duvet, the smell of his lumpy pillow, the silence coming from the sitting room. The chaos of the night previous had consumed all his attentions before, and only now could John really take stock of his surroundings. It filled him with a warm sort of feeling, the familiarity of it all, and he sighed a heavy sigh.<p>

John tiptoed downstairs, careful to avoid the creaking treads, and stood outside Sherlock's bedroom door for a few moments – waiting, listening. There was nothing. John thought about knocking, but he knew that disturbing his friend's rest would be inadvisable. Sherlock had been to hell and back, after all, and sleep could do him nothing but good. John took a deep breath and retreated to the kitchen. Four cups of tea and two hours of crap telly later, John found himself back outside Sherlock's door. What had he told Sherlock last night? That everything would be better in the morning. Well, now the sun had risen and the birds were chirruping about, the tea had been brewed … morning had come, and yet John had a terrible sinking feeling that perhaps all would _not_ be well…

John winced when the door creaked its opening. The room was flooded with mid-morning sunlight, and the windows were open just a crack – letting in the same fragrant air as that lovely day two weeks ago when everything had begun to go so terribly, terribly wrong. Sherlock was lying on his back, looking surprisingly calm. Sleeping Sherlock was usually a mess of sprawled limbs and unruly crumpled curls – but the man on the bed before him now was lying straight as an arrow, arms lying neatly by his side, head resting demurely against the pillow. John shuddered at the understated beauty of Sherlock's pale cheekbones in the sunlight, the dark lashes fluttering almost imperceptibly in sleep, the bow lips parted and passing breath easily between them. John recalled the last day – the day of the Fall – and could not help but think that his friend looked every bit a fallen angel: dark and light all at once, inconceivably perfect and yet irreparably damaged.

John knelt beside the bed, watched Sherlock's even breathing. He tried to focus on the breathing – on the fact that Sherlock was _alive_, at least – and not on the fact that he might never fully recover from his recent ordeal.

John raised his head when he heard a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock's eyes were wide and a little wild, but his hand caught John's hand and he exhaled more slowly, a little more calmly.

"Good morning," John said softly, trying to smile. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock's eyes wandered from John to the window, over the books and equipment on his floor, and back to John again. "This is my room," he said, hesitantly, as if expecting John to contradict him.

"Yes," John answered, encouraging. "Would you like some tea? I can put on a fresh kettle…"

Sherlock shook his head distractedly, waving the suggestion away. He refocused on the room and said slowly, seriously, "I haven't been … _ill_, John, have I?"

John looked down guiltily. He had hoped for a little small talk – something a bit easier – before they came right down to it. But he had run out of time, seemingly, and out of excuses for keeping the truth from Sherlock. There was no more protecting him – no more protecting _himself_ from the reality of his guilt.

"No," he exhaled, trying to keep his gaze away from his friend's piercing eyes. He still couldn't tell if Sherlock was really back, entirely, but he certainly seemed more lucid than the night before. "Why don't you … tell me what you _do_ know," John suggested, "and I can fill in the gaps?"

Sherlock chuckled, "John," he scolded fondly, sounding far away, "what I _know_ is precisely the problem. Everything I _think_ I know seems wrong, somehow, disordered … do you understand?"

John frowned, watching the gears behind Sherlock's eyes. He nodded.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"What could you possibly be sorry for?"

Sherlock's face fell suddenly. His eyes darted about the room once more, but they were no longer merely inquisitive. He looked frightened. He pushed John's hand away and struggled into a sitting position, pulling the sheets closer about him.

"Sherlock…?"

"What are you doing here, John?"

John's frown deepened. Sherlock's mind was wandering. "This is my home, Sherlock," he said cautiously, "it's-it's your home too, remember? You just said-"

"No," Sherlock shook his head savagely, "no no no."

John tried to reach out a hand, but Sherlock slapped it away. "Get out," he said quietly, closing his eyes. "You'll be gone in a moment."

John watched the slow shaking of Sherlock's head back and forth, working at a counter-beat against the quick breaths Sherlock pulled through his nose. John let his friend rock himself into a steady rhythm. Once calmed, after some innumerable minutes, Sherlock opened his eyes again and met John's.

"You're still here," he said simply.

"Still here," John confirmed, doggedly.

Sherlock watched the doctor curiously. "And how am I to know you will … be here … in another ten minutes? Or this afternoon? Tomorrow?"

John shrugged, trying to keep pace with Sherlock's rapid changes in mood and direction. "Test me," he said stoutly.

Sherlock smiled, barely. Then he cast his eyes downwards, and asked, embarrassed, "Would you be offended if I asked for proof? Not that it would matter. If my mind could create the entirety of you, I'm quite sure it could create just about anything."

"What proof?" John asked without hesitation.

Sherlock frowned. "Your shoulder. Might I see…"

But John was already disrobing. His back to Sherlock, he glanced over his shoulder for Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock reached out two fingers to run over the damaged skin of John's shoulder. He lingered for barely a moment and then nodded decisively. "I can only assume, then…"

"Yes," John interrupted, turning back and pulling his jumper back over his head. "In the hospital, it was just the drugs Mycroft had you on."

Sherlock looked embarrassed. He looked back out the window, and mumbled nonchalantly, "Yes, the pills. I … I'm afraid my experiments on them…"

John didn't let him finish. "I don't know the details – don't understand them myself – not properly anyhow. From what I gather, they were part memory suppressant, part hallucinogen, part sedative, all laced with morphine."

"Morphine," Sherlock chuckled darkly.

"Yes," John grimaced, "to keep you happy, I assume, and … out of trouble."

"Only _my_ brother would keep an addict on a steady dose of morphine for half a year," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John tried to smile, but this emergence of a whole new issue made his heart sink.

Sherlock mused under his breath, "So…" he said, looking out the window. His eyes seemed bright. "So morphine to keep me feeling all warm and content; memory suppressant to make everything seem foggy … sedative to keep me indoors, keep me from meddling; and hallucinogens to keep me seeing what he_ told_ me I was seeing. How very clever."

"Maybe." John felt like weeping. Sooner or later, he knew, Sherlock would come around to the terrible realization that John was at least half-responsible for everything.

"I assume whatever he gave me is illegal?"

John shrugged. "I'm fairly certain Mycroft had it made especially for you. I doubt anyone's had time to make it legal or otherwise."

Sherlock chuckled again. "I suppose I should feel … special."

John fiddled with his hands in his lap while Sherlock continued to work out the last seven months of life life. "And I can only suppose…" he sighed dramatically, "that this whole scheme was … for my own good?"

"Yes," John tried to sound sincere. He took a moment to explain to Sherlock everything Mycroft had explained to him. The dangers, the assassins, the threats. When he had finished, Sherlock nodded serenely. John watched his smiling, easy acceptance, and frowned. He was struck again by how easily he was taking it all. Then a thought struck him. "You … you don't believe a world I'm saying, do you?"

Sherlock pulled his gaze from the window and locked his eyes seriously on John. "Do you blame me?"

John floundered. He'd been expecting Sherlock's wrath, but this – this was infinitely worse. Sherlock's couldn't even look at him, didn't even see him – denied his existence all together.

"I'm … I'm real," John muttered weakly. "You can trust me."

Sherlock shook his head, watching some birds outside, "I'm afraid not, my dear Watson. But please don't frown. My hallucinations are so much more pleasant when you're happy. Like the one where I took back my scarf – do you remember? Can _you_ remember _my_ hallucinations?"

John felt the tears in his eyes. "So you believe _him_ … you think that silly house with the stupid cat is your real home? You think you're that … ordinary?"

Sherlock turned his hands palm up on the bed. "Who knows?" he asked helplessly, carelessly. "Perhaps that _was _reality. Perhaps _this_ is. Perhaps my life before was reality and all of this is just a very vivid, very long-lasting dream. Perhaps reality is something else altogether, and I just haven't woken up yet."

"You're not making any sense, Sherlock."

"Oh, _none_ of it makes sense," Sherlock said, irritated. He patted John's hand companionably. "It doesn't matter. Out of all the realities that may or may not be, I find I rather prefer the ones with you in it. So please, let's just enjoy it while it lasts, shall we?"

When the tears finally fell, John could not sit still any longer. He placed Sherlock's hand gently back on the covers and went back to the living room, alone. He knew he'd been foolish to think that the morning would see the end of all his troubles. Sherlock had been through a lot … and that was putting it mildly. It was selfish to expect him to wake up and simply reassume his old self. And if John were honest with himself, he had expected most of it – the confusion, the vulnerability, the anger. John had expected to have to play the patient friend – explaining, coaxing, calming his friend through his hurt and anger. But outright denial? _That_ was a hard pill to swallow. And, to be fair, John should have seen it coming. In the last seven months, Sherlock had been tossed back in and out of reality, drugged comatose, committed to an asylum, and been lied to more times than John could count. And that was all following immediately after the ordeal with Moriarty and the faking of his own death. If he were in Sherlock's shoes, John doubted very strongly he'd even be capable of coherent speech.

And then Sherlock was in the doorway, looking contrite.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry again."

John turned in his seat to face his friend. "And again – what should _you_ be sorry for?"

Sherlock approached his old chair, eyeing it warily. "May I?" he asked.

John frowned. "Of course. It's _your_ chair, Sherlock."

"Oh," Sherlock still lingered a moment before sitting. "Yes, of course."

John leaned forward in his chair, regarding the man across from him with anxious eyes.

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap and tried to look composed, but John could see the nervous tension working its way through his veins. "I hadn't meant to upset you just now."

John sighed. "Of course it upset me – my best friend telling me he thinks I'm not real."

Sherlock chuckled, and looked out the window. "I understand, of course. You see, quite recently _my_ best friend told me he wasn't real…"

John frowned, his patience wearing thin with Sherlock's back and forth. "I don't understand – do you think I'm real ... or not? Do you believe what I'm telling you, or do you think you're mad? I can't keep up. I-I'm confused."

Sherlock's smile melted away and he looked at John, eyes deadly serious and heart-wrenchingly sad. "As am I."

John leaned forward farther in his chair. "I don't know how to help you," he admitted weakly. "Tell me what I can do."

Sherlock watched John carefully, his silver eyes lingering on points of interest: John's hands, the wrinkles of his forehead, the determined set of his jaw. Everything that seemed so real and familiar and safe. "I don't know," he admitted, "I don't know _anything_, John."

"What do you mean, you don't know anything? What-what's in your head?"

Sherlock looked at his shoes. "A lot of rubbish – or that's how it seems, anyway," he smiled sadly, "Nothing makes sense. It's like … dreaming, in a way, I suppose. Do you know that dream you have, everyone has at some point or another, where you are waking up from having a dream? When in fact, you're only dreaming of waking up? It's _still_ not real?"

John nodded, fascinated.

"That is how I feel. At least, that's the closest I can come to vocalizing my mind state at present. I keep waking from dreams, only to find I'm still dreaming…"

John chewed the inside of his cheek. "And I suppose my just _telling_ you that this is reality wouldn't do any good?"

Sherlock smiled across the space between them. "I wish I could believe you, John, I really do. But nothing … _feels_ real."

John was about to reply when he realized that there were tears in Sherlock's eyes. They fell when he turned his head to gaze wistfully out the window. John looked away shamefacedly. There was silence for a few moments. Then Sherlock took a breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and refocused on John with a stiff smile. "Well," he tried to sound cheerful, "is the offer for tea still good?"

And so John put the kettle on, and tried to reassure Sherlock with his presence if not with his words. He didn't want to ask too many questions, didn't even want to force more information or answers on him (even if they were the truth). He would leave Sherlock's recovery in Sherlock's hands, to be undertaken at Sherlock's own chosen speed. If the great detective chose to spend a month moping about the flat in his dressing gown before he asked John a single question, well, John would bring him tea and wait silently until he was called upon to give information.

John could not know the many confused forms Sherlock's recovery would take over the next few days, the way Sherlock's mind would shift and transform and rewire to try to right itself. Today Sherlock was in denial, yes, and that hurt. But John could not know that even worse was yet to come: memory loss, withdrawal, depression, helplessness, a constant back and forth between lucidity and complete incoherence...

John could not know that Sherlock's recovery would all but kill him - that it was not the beginning of the end, but merely the end of the beginning.

* * *

><p><em><span>AN__: I hope you enjoyed this chapter (and a small, evil part of me hopes it broke your heart), and I promise I will be returning as soon as I can do to complete this story. In the interim, you should probably check out some of my other Sherlock stories (yeah yeah, shameless self-promotion, I know)._

_Also, one last note - the last line of the chapter, about beginnings and ends, must be attributed to Winston Churchill. I'm not nearly that clever, hehe..._


	11. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

_Author's Note__: Hello! I've missed this story – and all of you – more than words can express. I'm posting this just a little later than I had originally intended, and I do hope you forgive me for that, but I wanted to make sure I got across exactly what I had intended to. Namely: absolute and utter madness. That being said, I tried out a new format when writing this chapter – getting into John's thoughts on the matter a little bit, thinking it might work out rather well to show you rather than just tell you the way John keeps making observations and predictions and they keep getting shot down almost immediately. I also hope you catch on that the first "journal" entry of John's is a recap of Sherlock's behavior in the last chapter, which brings us right up to date._

_PS – a quick thank you to all of you who were kind enough to wish me well on my honors thesis and on my graduation, it kept me smiling all through the last weeks of my schooling and I can't thank you enough for that._

_Now, enough babble – I've written you an extra long chapter in thanks for all of your patience. Please let me know what you think and I will be getting up the next chapter much quicker than this last. Thanks again!_

* * *

><p><em>From the notes and observations of Dr. John H Watson:<em>

_April 24__th__, Afternoon._

_Today Sherlock woke and appeared fairly lucid. Though demonstrating signs of slight memory loss (inability to recognize his own chair, for instance), he spent the morning asking questions and even correctly deduced the contents of the medication Mycroft had administered._

_This brief appearance of normality was quickly followed by a short panic and an insistence that I was not, in fact, real at all. The panic was short-lived and succeeded almost immediately by remorse and something like guilt. Sherlock apologized for his behavior and proceeded to explain his mindset. It appears he cannot understand his situation fully or completely grasp reality, though he speaks clearly and acts relatively normally. His personality seems to be intact, though he is a little more lethargic and a little less arrogant than the "old" Sherlock. Physical affects: none, other than a visible exhaustion. I'm still concerned that his last dose of medication was less than twenty hours ago – Sherlock himself hinted earlier that his steady ingestion of morphine might cause issues later on. We'll see how it goes – more to come later. At present Sherlock is calm and (wonder of wonders) eating._

"What are you typing, John?" Sherlock asked, tearing the crust of a sandwich delicately and bringing it to his lips.

"Um … email to Harry," he kept his eyes on the screen.

Sherlock chuckled, "Please don't lie."

John shrugged and looked up. "Thought it might be helpful to document your … you know, progress."

Sherlock held John's gaze for an almost-awkward length of time. When he refocused on his lunch, he mused: "It's odd, don't you think? My hallucinations not only acknowledging but actually documenting and doctoring my … illness."

John frowned, "There is no illness," he maintained. "I told you. You're not … crazy, or anything – you're not. I'm just taking down your behavior and-"

"Yes yes," Sherlock waved his hand in the air, irritated, "as I told you this morning – I am uninterested in any clarification of reality or otherwise." Sherlock abandoned his sandwich and sat back against the sofa in a huff.

"Fine," John said, closing the laptop with a snap. "Right. But I'm here if you want to talk about it."

The detective scoffed.

"I'm _serious_, Sherlock," John argued, "Sooner or later you're going to come around. I can help you make sense of everything – but you need to tell me _how_ to help you."

Sherlock's face became angry quite suddenly, as if he had been holding it back for quite a while. "You can't _help_ me," he said in disgust, "but I would appreciate if you'd stop prattling on about illness and insanity and simply _let me be_."

John sat silent and fuming for a moment before pointedly setting his laptop to the side. "Right," he said, "Right then."

They sat in silence for a moment. John watched Sherlock, and Sherlock childishly avoided his gaze.

"Well," the doctor tried again after a moment, "Let's forget all about that then. Why don't you have a shower and we can do whatever you'd like – watch some telly, or-"

"Boring," Sherlock interrupted.

John pinched his eyes closed and tried – hard – not to lose his temper.

"Fine," he said, "then you start with the shower and we'll go from there, yeah?"

Sherlock stood and stretched his long arms above his head. "Very well," he said lazily, "but you should know I'm not doing so because you've told me to do so. I had already planned on a shower before I even sat down to lunch."

John chuckled, "Good – all your idea, I've got it. Not go on."

Sherlock assumed a little half-smirk and let it linger for just a moment before making his way to the bathroom. And as John watched him go – impossibly long feet padding down the hall, blue bathrobe fluttering like a mad cape in his wake – he himself was almost fooled into believing it was real: that there were no conditions or stipulations – no denial of the facts of the last few months floating over their heads. And John allowed himself to think that it might just be this easy. Sure, Sherlock did not completely believe the _truth_ – he still thought of John as some pleasant hallucination, or at least would not rule out the possibility that he _might_ be one. But he was himself again: all arrogance and irritability, joking and scoffing and being completely childish. Perhaps they could just go on like this, however long it might take, until Sherlock simply _accepted_ that this was reality. Could it be that simple?

But then the detective's head popped back out the bathroom door and he called to John: "By the way, don't forget to feed the cat!" and John knew that they were a long way from resolution – that his friend's mind appeared to be just as addled as before, even if he maintained the outward appearance of composure.

_April 25__th__, Morning._

_The withdrawal symptoms began last night. Despite his protestations, Sherlock did settle down after his shower and we watched a movie. He complained of a headache during, and I thought he was just being difficult. By the end of the film, he was violently ill. I don't think he knew what was happening to him, at first – that it was his body demanding the morphine it's been so accustomed to – because his mind was beginning to wander again. It's the headache that's really the worst of it, I believe. He's behaving the same way he was the night Mycroft sent me to check on him when he had to be out of country. The pain in his head came just as suddenly and he did indeed loose consciousness for a time. I can't explain why he slept so long last time (perhaps slept it off entirely) and yet can't seem to get any rest this time around. Perhaps it was the increased dosage Mycroft had him on at St. Mary's, or perhaps he's just trying harder to fight it this time, I can't be sure._

_He's only just fallen asleep, maybe an hour ago, but I'm afraid he'll he no better when he wakes. Opiod withdrawal can last up to seventy-two hours, and we have yet to reach the forty-eight hour mark._

"John!" the voice was weak and muffled.

John set the laptop aside quickly and dashed to the patient's room. Sherlock was lying on his side at the edge of the bed, his head lolled over the side like a ragdoll. John knelt beside him and tried to get him back to his pillow. Once righted, John took a good look at him. He was deathly pale – worse than usual, anyhow – with a thin sheen of sweat that slicked back his hair and gave his lovely cheekbones a greenish, gaunt look. His brow was creased with wrinkles of incessant pain, and his legs kept giving little involuntary kicks beneath the sheets.

"It's so hot, John," he whined pathetically.

John nodded sympathetically and pulled the blankets down to the end of the bed. "Better?"

Sherlock's face was a grimace but his eyes looked grateful.

John swallowed. "I could run you a cool bath, if you'd like? Might do some good."

Sherlock shook his head desperately and closed his eyes. John took the damp cloth from the bedside table and resumed his work of the last twelve hours or so, before Sherlock had fallen asleep for that short time. He wiped the sweat from Sherlock's forehead, checked his pulse and temperature occasionally, and offered soothing and meaningless words.

During one of these attempts at pulse-checking, Sherlock batted John's fingers away from his wrist and instead captured the doctor's hand between each of his own. "John," he croaked, "When does this stop?"

John bit his lip. He didn't want to lie again. "Probably another day – at least twenty-four hours."

Sherlock groaned. His eyes were still closed but he would not let go of John's hand. There was a silence and then: "I've been here before, you know."

The statement threw John for a moment. Then he remembered: the old Sherlock, the one he hadn't ever met, and the addiction that had left scars up and down his arms and a big brother who kept him under constant surveillance.

"Yes," John said, and felt very foolish for having nothing better to offer.

"I must say, however," Sherlock managed, "You have a much better bedside manner than Mycroft…"

John chuckled at that. At least Sherlock was remembering things – _real_ things from his past. And there seemed to be no lingering suspicion that those memories were in any way fabricated. John encouraged the recollection: "I can't imagine him being very sympathetic."

Sherlock smiled, but the expression was contorted and grotesque. "Sympathetic?" he coughed, "Bastard locked me in my bedroom and sat the other side of the door while I screamed, vomited, and destroyed everything within my reach."

John blanched for a moment. "He – he left you alone? In that condition?"

Sherlock jerked suddenly and made an impatient gesture with his free hand, his body heaving. John started and reached to the floor to retrieve the bowl of sick that was already half-full. He offered it to the dark-haired man who clutched it with white knuckles and shook while his body rid itself of fluid and stomach acid.

When John returned a moment later with the bowl empty and newly-washed, Sherlock took up his hand again and held it to his chest. It now smelled like lemon dish detergent, but Sherlock smiled anyway.

"I wasn't alone," he said, and John was pulled back to their earlier conversation and the devastating picture of his friend imprisoned in his own room, facing the terrors of his situation unaided. "Mycroft sat on the other side of the door, I told you. That's not alone."

John snorted. "Yes, it certainly is. If he didn't have the stomach to take care of you himself, he should have taken you to-"

"No," Sherlock frowned, "he wasn't kind – or sympathetic, as you've said – but he did the best he knew how."

"It seems Mycroft's _best_ is not often all that good at all," John said bitterly.

Sherlock hummed deep in his throat, conceding John's point. "Perhaps," he said, "but it worked."

"How do you figure?"

"I'm not dead, am I?"

John frowned, bringing out the lines around his eyes. He recalled Mycroft having said the same words to him when they were still in the thick of things a few weeks ago. He couldn't understand the drastic logic then, and he didn't understand it now. Perhaps the Holmes brothers just worked on a different level – one he would never, in fact, understand – where the end justified any and all means. "Still isn't bloody right …" he mumbled half-heartedly.

Sherlock chuckled weakly. It made him cough. "Right or wrong," he mused when it had subsided, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Mycroft."

John swallowed. He wouldn't argue – if Sherlock could forgive his brother, then John would do his damndest to try and do the same.

"Regardless," Sherlock interrupted, "I'm quite glad it's you here, this time around."

John smiled and watched fondly as his friend turned on his side and curled with his knees to his chest. John let Sherlock keep his hand and stood guard for the next however-many hours. When Sherlock finally fell into a lasting sleep in the early hours of the next morning, John sighed because he knew they were nearing the end of the sickness; he frowned because he could not know what Sherlock's mindset would be when the consulting detective woke up.

_April 26__th__, Afternoon._

_I think we're through the thick of the things, at least with the withdrawal. Sherlock has been sleeping for almost twelve hours straight – his body temperature and heart rate are still elevated, he still has the shakes, and I can tell his sleep is not as restful as it should be. But he hasn't woke complaining of pain, and he's keeping down the last few glasses of water I forced on him, and those are good signs._

_What I'm worried about now – how odd – is not his waking, but his sleeping. For the last hour, he'd been talking in his sleep. And not in English. I've been trying to keep tabs on what he's been saying, but – obviously – I can't spell very well in French, German, Russian, or Welsh. I've done by best with Internet translations, but either I've done a poor job, or Sherlock is speaking pure gibberish. For the moment I'm chalking it up to fever dreams…_

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock was gone. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, he really hadn't. But nursing Sherlock had been a full-time occupation, and after Sherlock had been sleeping for over twelve hours, John had set aside his last set of notes and sat back in the chair by Sherlock's bedside. Before he knew it, the sun had been setting and the sound of Sherlock's breathing had been lulling him into an unwelcome sense of relaxation.

Now it was – John quickly checked his watch – almost one-thirty in the morning. Damn.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

He made it to the sitting room. "Sherlock!"

Panic rising, John checked his own bedroom, then the kitchen.

Probably mere seconds before the terror in his chest choked the life out of him, John found the elusive consulting detective.

The man was curled up in the bathtub, fully dressed with the shower curtain closed and hiding him from view. He had his knees pulled up to his chest and his long fingers tangled in the dark curls of his bowed head. At the sound of the curtain being ripped aside, his head jerked up with a look of panic on his face.

"John!" he started.

John released a deep breath and felt the tension seep away. "Sherlock," he sighed, "what are you-"

But Sherlock was on his feet, tripping in his haste to slam the bathroom door. Then he yanked John into the bathtub with him and pulled the curtain back into place. "Keep your voice down," he scolded.

John watched in confusion as Sherlock resumed his position sitting on the cool porcelain floor of the tub. He sat tentatively at the other end, facing his friend and doing his best to read the expression on his face. "Why are we hiding?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock raised his face to John's and his grey eyes were cloudy and veiled behind suspicion and fear. "If they find me, they'll give me another injection," he explained in a whisper.

John tried his best to remain calm. "Injection? Of what? ...Who will?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock gestured wildly, desperately, and his sudden irritation shook John. "They come in, every few hours, and they …" his eyes seemed to roll back, "they inject me with _something_ – I, I don't know…"

John held out a steadying hand. "It's okay, Sherlock, they can't-"

Sherlock shook his head quickly back and forth. "Yes they can," he hissed, "they can and they do. Everyday I try to hide, but they always find me and there are too many of them and I can't fight them off and they … and they …" Sherlock held out his arm for John to see. And there they were: new needle marks among the old scars – the places where the St. Mary's staff had administered Sherlock's "medication". John touched the place lightly with the tips of his first two fingers, and Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

"But … you're home now, Sherlock, don't you remember?"

Sherlock looked around a little skeptically, his eyes far away. "Home?" he asked doubtfully. "No no no. More lies – another trick. You're only trying to distract me. They've sent you to find me and trick me."

John shook his head and reached a hand towards Sherlock.

The taller man slapped the hand away and slid further away. "Don't," he said quickly, "don't touch me!"

"Sherlock, I just-"

Sherlock stood abruptly and he towered over John. "Get out," he said, carefully keeping his distance.

"Sherlock?"

"Get out! You'll give me away!"

John watched his friend's face carefully. He didn't want to push the man any further. He didn't know what caused Sherlock to suddenly revert back to his time at St. Mary's, but he knew Sherlock was flirting with a complete mental break. He sighed and stood up slowly. "Okay," he said soothingly, "Okay, alright, I'm going. But I'll come back if-"

Sherlock looked terrified.

"Only if you want me," John clarified quickly. "Only if you want me. Just call, okay, if you need me, and I'll be right back here. Okay?"

John didn't get any answer because Sherlock had sunk back down and buried his face in his hands. And it hurt, because John had no choice but to leave him that way …

_April 28__th__, Morning._

_Sherlock spent a total of sixteen hours hiding in the tub. I checked on his about once an hour, and he never moved. This episode lasted until around six o'clock last night when he began screaming at the bathroom mirror – it must have triggered memories of the two-way mirror in his room at St. Mary's, because he kept demanding that Mycroft "show himself". _

_I called to him, but he locked me out. When I heard the crash, I broke down the door. Sherlock had punched the mirror - he tried to punch me when I came through the door. I was forced to sedate him, and he was out for a few hours._

_When he woke up, he had no memory of his bathroom adventure. In fact, he had no memory of the last few months at all. It wasn't like before – when he claimed he didn't know which reality was real – rather, he couldn't remember his fake diagnosis or his time in the hospital after the Fall. The last thing he said he remembered was the confrontation with Moriarty on the roof of St. Bart's. And then he told me something interesting …_

"What do you mean, Moriarty's not dead?"

Sherlock was sitting back in his armchair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, looking every inch the picture of the old Sherlock John knew so well. "That is what I said," he rolled his eyes at John's classic inability to keep up. "I'm not the only Englishman with a genius-level IQ capable of faking his own death."

"But it's been-"

"John, please do listen to what's I'm telling you. James Moriarty is still alive and he is going to return. He will not be fooled for long by my jump. What we need to do it contact Mycroft and see what kind of surveillance he can pull from the hospital. Sooner or later, Moriarty _must_ have left that building."

John gaped. "You … you want to call Mycroft?"

Sherlock exhaled sharply, pinched the bridge of his nose, and held out his hand.

"What?" John asked in confusion.

"My _phone_," Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Honestly, John, are you quite sure you're alright? You're moving more slowly than usual, and that _is_ saying something..."

"Right," John swallowed. "Yes, well … why don't _I _call Mycroft, and you can…"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed quickly. "Quite right. You deal with my brother. I will head down to Scotland Yard to fill Lestrade in on the finer details of-"

"No!" John immediately regretted his outburst. "I mean, we need to … stay inside. In the flat."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

John cast about frantically. "I…" he began. "Please – just trust me. Just, for me, please, we can't go out right now," he tried desperately.

Sherlock looked appalled. "What do you expect me to do, John? Sit back and do _nothing_ while Moriarty escapes?"

John ran his hands distractedly through his hair. Yes, this was definitely the old Sherlock. For a moment he thought desperately about playing along – letting Sherlock believe the last eight months had never happened and just … beginning again?

That was when his phone rang.

_Mycroft Holmes._

"Oh … ah, excuse me. Have to take this…" John stammered guiltily.

When John returned to the living room, it was as if the entire world had turned upside-down.

Mycroft had filled him in: the last of Moriarty's major associates had been dealt with, which meant that Sherlock was safe. What's more, the Sherlock that John had left in the living room was nowhere to be found. The detective was no longer interested in the "case". He was sitting in the same chair, in the same position, but try as he might, John could not force his friend to utter a word. Sherlock was staring into space – maybe in his mind palace, maybe checked out altogether – not moving a muscle, and refusing, or unable, to acknowledge John.

For a moment, the good doctor felt every bit as crazy as Sherlock. He couldn't keep up – the frequent changes in Sherlock's mood, behavior, memory, and understanding; the back-and-forth between hope and fear; the lack of sleep and the staggering level of stress. John looked down to find his hands shaking. He needed help – he needed someone else, someone he trusted, to keep an eye on Sherlock while he himself got some rest. Just one night … damn, even just a few hours …

John's mobile was still clutched in his left hand.

He _had_ told her he'd call, hadn't he? She was a doctor herself, and she loved Sherlock . He would be in perfectly capable hands. And perhaps a familiar face would do Sherlock some good … that was, if he didn't attack her again….

John was torn, and just about to give up on the whole idea of calling in reinforcements, when Sherlock turned his head and spoke calmly.

"It's a good idea, John. You haven't eaten or slept in days. Call her. I promise I'll be good."

John did not ask how Sherlock knew what he'd been thinking, nor did he try and decide which Sybil-Sherlock he was dealing with at this particular moment. What he did do was take a deep breath. And then he dialed Molly Hooper.

* * *

><p><em><span>AN: I sincerely hope it was worth the wait. I also didn't intend to have Ms. Hooper play any role whatsoever in this story, but she just keeps resurfacing haha so I'll just go ahead and go with it. Please let me know what you think!_


	12. Disappearing Act

_Author's Note__: So here goes. I'm rather pleased with this chapter, and I do hope you feel the same. Ironically, I wrote it as having a happy ending first and then read it over and thought to myself, "Oh no, that's not how it would go at all" haha, so I hope you're pleased with what I've come up with. I also hope you appreciate Ms. Hooper and her brilliant performance here – I really like Molly, and I think most fics fail to give her the depth she deserves. Anyhow, I think I know precisely where I want to go with this story from here on out (thanks to the help of my brilliant boyfriend), and I'd say we have about two chapters to go before we reach the inevitable conclusion. Also, the way the ending will present itself is going to open up the possibility of a sequel. I haven't decided yet if the sequel will be my undertaking or if one of my fantastic reviewers would like to take up that task. PM me if you're at all interested and we'll see how this thing goes from here on out. _

_As always, thank you so very much for reading and let me know what you think! You're reviews are kind of my lifeblood…_

* * *

><p>By the time Molly Hooper arrived at 221b Baker Street – around six in the evening, fresh from her shift at St. Bart's – John had very nearly changed his mind about the whole thing. Sherlock had not spoken a word in hours – in fact, the last thing he'd said had been "I'll be good, I promise" when prompting John to call Molly. As far as he could tell, Sherlock had been sticking to that promise. He had yet to leave his armchair – he had yet to even switch positions. John had done his best to go about his daily routine: do normal everyday things like make tea and pay overdue bills while a silent Sherlock Holmes statue merely existed in the living room.<p>

John tried to let it go but ended up feeling absurdly guilty for the few hours of peace and quiet he was enjoying. He did his best to keep a steady amount of caffeine running through his veins, not daring to risk falling asleep again to find Sherlock missing, and awaited the arrival of Ms. Hooper with growing anxiety. It wasn't as if he didn't _need_ the break – God help him, but he did – it was just that it felt so _weak_ to be cashing in and leaving Sherlock to someone else's care. Not to mention, Sherlock's silence unnerved him far more than he was willing to admit. At least when the detective had been a whirlwind of chaos and destruction, John could follow the trajectory of his friend's thoughts. The silence – hell, the silence was terrifying. Was Sherlock planning an escape? Was he contemplating suicide? Was he upset that John had even thought to call Molly – did he feel as if this were only the latest in a long line of abandonments?

The bell rang; Sherlock remained as motionless as ever.

John knelt beside his friend and tried to catch his attention. "Sherlock," he cautioned, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock remained precisely where he was, eyes peering out the open window. John continued. "That'll be Molly at the door, Sherlock."

No response.

"But … if you don't want her here, you just have to say something. I can send her away – just say the word. Do you … understand?"

Silence.

"Okay … right. Well. I'm going to go see her in. She's going to stay for the night. But I'll be here, okay? I just need to sleep for a few hours – just a couple, alright? But if you need me – for any reason, any at all – just come get me. I'll be up, I promise, do you understand?"

Sherlock-statue blinked once.

John sighed, realized that was all the assent he was going to receive, and hauled himself back to his feet.

"John!" Molly squeaked when the doctor opened the door.

John tried on a weary smile. "Hullo, Molly."

Molly tried her best not to frown at John's appearance. The doctor was hunched over, wearing what looked to be at least a four-day-old shirt. His hands were shaking with too much stress and copious doses of caffeine. The lines around his eyes were deeper than ever – the eyes themselves sunken and dark.

Molly swallowed. "You need sleep," she said before she could stop herself.

John rolled his shoulders. "Yeah," he said, "about that…" The doctor rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I don't know if this is such a good idea."

Molly kept her face neutral, tried to understand what John was feeling and to respect his choices. But something in her could not simply walk away. She was at least partly responsible for this whole ordeal – had gone along with Mycroft's orders like the rest of them – and John had never looked nearer to fainting straight away than he did at that moment.

Molly shook her head resolutely and pushed her way inside the flat. She let the good doctor offer her a cup of coffee and rattle on about Sherlock's recent behavior – the latest developments and today's eerie bout of silence – while she turned down his sheets, set out a clean pair of pajamas, and closed the blinds.

"John," she said calmly as the man himself made a seventh pacing circle about his bedroom. "_John_," she tried, more firmly. He looked up distractedly. "Please," Molly said, and gestured towards the bed. John swallowed and approached hesitantly.

"You'll get me if anything goes wrong, of course?"

Molly nodded, a sweet motherly-type smile on her face. "Of course."

"I know you're capable, I just … he's so unpredictable right now."

"I know."

"And I'm a light sleeper – nightmares, you know, and everything – so if you need me, just yell and I'll be-"

"Yes," Molly repeated, "I know, John."

John tried to smile, but his face felt like play-doh. "Yes of course."

Molly made her way towards the door. "Get some rest, John, everything will be fine."

John had never seen Ms. Hooper quite so self-assured, so poised and determined, but he was grateful. And as the door clicked closed, John Watson was asleep almost before he hit the pillow.

* * *

><p>When Molly reentered the sitting room it was to find Sherlock just as he had been before – one arm resting on each arm of the chair, head turned at a slight angle on his long, elegant neck, staring dreamily out the window. The young lady took a deep breathe and took up residence in John's chair, directly across from the great detective, coffee in hand, prepared for a long night.<p>

"He's a mess," she said, jerking her head towards John's bedroom door as if it were only natural to strike up a casual conversation with an almost-crazy person.

Sherlock remained determinedly unresponsive.

Molly coughed, a little nervously, and tried again, a little more harshly this time, "How many days have you had him up? He's dead on his feet, you know."

A little surprised intake of breath and an angry flush gave away the detective's attention.

Molly pursed her lips and offered a final jab – smiling as she did so because, despite whatever anyone said, Molly Hooper knew Sherlock perhaps better than he knew himself. Not better than John, of course, but the doctor had a way of being altogether too gentle with the detective – coddling when scolding was really called for. And that is why Molly smiled when she said, "Poor John. He's been through so much…"

Sherlock visibly stiffened and swiveled in his chair – childishness quashing depression for a moment. "I beg your pardon," he said brusquely. "Poor _John_?"

Molly blinked innocently a few times.

Sherlock continued, "I have been drugged, imprisoned, and driven mad – and you say '_Poor John_'?"

"Oh," Molly looked down at her fingernails. "Yes. I suppose you've had a rather rough time of it." Sherlock gawked at her, but Molly continued right on along. She knew the great Sherlock Holmes was lurking somewhere inside that absurdly brilliant head. It was just a matter or getting him to come out again. Getting him back talking was a step in the right direction, but what he really needed was …

"Besides, you don't seem very crazy to me." … A challenge.

Sherlock's eyebrows skyrocketed. "I assure you-" he began, but bit his tongue. He would not play mind games with Molly-bloody-Hooper of all people.

Molly lost her self-satisfied smirk and leaned forwards an inch or two. "Talk to me," she urged, softly, "What's going on?"

Sherlock refocused his gaze out the window, and Molly tried to be a little more understanding. "You're not _really_ mad, though – of course you're not."

The detective took a breath through his nose and closed his eyes.

"So why are you doing this?" Molly persisted. "You're going to kill him if you keep this up…"

Sherlock turned, slowly, to face his accuser. "You have no idea what you are saying, do you?"

His eyes were dangerous – darker than usual – and Molly was brought back to the night at St. Bart's and this man – _this_ man who had come so swiftly and whose hands had gripped her arms and pushed her to the floor, whose lips had uttered threats and demands. But Molly would not be deterred. She knew that man had been drugged and in shock – _that _man had been an animal.

It was Sherlock Holmes who sat before her now, Sherlock Holmes as she knew him – lost in his own head and alienating himself in his efforts at protecting himself and those he loved. Sherlock, who had had days to let the drugs leave his system – had had countless hours to think through his situation and jog his massive brain back to its incredible abilities. Perhaps Molly's belief in her friend was simply greater than his own. Whatever the case, she knew Sherlock Holmes was not – simply _could not_ be as mad as he was pretending to be. It was all a matter of the right sort of persuasion…

And then Molly was reaching to the floor to retrieve her bag. From it she drew a pack of cigarettes – the brand Sherlock smoked at university, how could she ever forget? – and a silver lighter. She was keenly aware of the detective's eyes on her as she drew one slender cigarette from its casing and offered it to him.

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously for a moment before his lips curled into a wicked half-smirk. He took the items offered him with fingers that shook just slightly and chuckled to himself. "Naughty girl," he mused, and the tension dissipated for a moment.

Molly watched the man across from her light the cigarette and press it between cupids-bow lips, inhaling gratefully. "I thought you might need one after … well, everything," she explained. "But if you ever tell John," she cautioned suddenly, "I swear I'll deny it."

Sherlock chuckled, smoke passing easily through elegant nostrils as he did so. Molly watched him visibly relax and let him enjoy one of his lesser vices for a moment or two.

When the cigarette was half burned to ash, Molly asked again: "So tell me why. Why you're faking it. Is it … for him? For John?"

Sherlock sighed deeply. Molly was clever – far cleverer than anyone gave her credit for, really. Alas … "You're mistaken," he said sadly.

Molly made to protest, but Sherlock held up a hand to halt her words. "I am not _faking_, as you say. Yes," he admitted, "there are moments when it all comes back and I feel … _normal_ – like myself. But those moments are fleeting. More often, I come back to myself and I have lost whole blocks of time. Fortunately, John has been keeping that handy little diary of his and I am able to read up on what I have been doing during those … lapses."

Molly nodded, rather breathless.

"I suppose it's rather the way a _real_ schizophrenic might feel, or someone with split personalities. But I am _not_ faking – not in the way you think."

Molly watched her friend carefully. "But you haven't told him," she protested. "It's been days and you haven't told him that you've ever _really_ come back to yourself, even once. He's worried sick – going out of his mind – and you're being dishonest with him."

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, as if he were dealing with a child. The butt of the cigarette had burnt out, but Sherlock kept it between his first and second fingers, as if he'd forgotten about it altogether.

Molly scrutinized him for a moment before realizing. "You don't think you're going to recover."

Sherlock smiled a small smile – a reward for Molly's perceptive abilities. "It's been nearly a week," he explained calmly, "how many days has my brain had to repair itself? And yet I still suffer episodes of insanity – whole hours in my day that I cannot recall, cannot … _control_."

Molly frowned. "But what about today? You've been in that chair all day, according to John. Have you…"

"I've been myself for-" Sherlock calmly checked his watch, "almost eight hours now."

Molly raised her eyebrows hopefully.

"An experiment in self-control," Sherlock explained. "But what would happen if I left the chair? Would some hidden stimuli – the mirror, for instance, or a kitchen knife, or a few aspirin capsules – set me off again?"

"But we can help you," Molly tried to argue, "John can help you."

Sherlock shook his head and gestured towards Molly's hand. "I have attacked you once already – I tried to attack John in the bathroom." A sigh. "I am a danger."

Molly curled her hand into a fist in an effort to hide the bandaging there. "John can take care of himself, and-"

"And what if there is no coming back from this ordeal? You forget, Molly, no one knows the workings of the human brain quite like I do. If the pathways of my mind have not yet repaired themselves – if my brain has not yet reconstructed the way it should – it is increasingly unlikely that it ever will."

Molly's lips were set in a resolute line. She was about to protest when she caught the look in Sherlock's eye.

She had seen it before – that glint of grim determination that seemed always to proceed some drastic and necessary action on Sherlock's part. Most recently, she had seen it the night Sherlock had come to her telling her, "he thought he was going to die". She recalled her useless protestations that Sherlock did not have to go through with any of it – that John could be made safe another way; she recalled Sherlock's resolve and the way he seemed to not even have heard her words at all.

And suddenly Molly _knew_, and it brought a flush of anger and embarrassment to her pale cheeks.

The cigarette, the smiles she'd received from her friend, the idea that she had been working in the right direction – all the time she'd thought she'd had Sherlock right where she wanted him. She thought she had gotten through to him in a way John had not been able because John cared _too_ much. She thought her little persuasions and optimistic offers of help had brought the great detective around to a place from which they could move forward. The night had gone exactly as she'd envisioned it – the next steps, she'd thought, had been offering Sherlock his violin, perhaps having him read over some of his old case files, showing him his website. Little steps that might prompt him to hold on tighter to those moments of lucidity, of perfect clarity. Silly Molly.

She had seen John waking in the morning to the sound of Sherlock playing some lovely Bach sonata and then listening calmly, gratefully, as Sherlock confessed that he was really much better than he had been letting on. She had seen herself leaving the flat quietly, unnoticed, while John and Sherlock talked and planned a course for Sherlock's recovery. She had seen Sherlock's triumphant smirk and John's happy tears. She had seen herself, alone and back in her own humble apartment, enjoying a too-sweet coffee and smiling because she had been useful – just a little, in her own way. And one day they would see her and smile and say "thank you", because while John-and-Sherlock were an entity all their own, a little world that was self-sustaining and revolved on its own bizarre axis of trust and exclusive loyalty, she had been able to set that world spinning again and be a part of it for just one glorious second…

Silly Molly.

It would not happen the way she had imagined. Oh no. The glint was back in Sherlock's eye, and Molly Hooper knew that she had been had. All this time she thought she had been gently manipulating Sherlock to her own purposes when it was the other way round. Sherlock had been planning – she couldn't say for how long. Perhaps he'd been keeping John awake on purpose so that he'd call her – someone who could explain to John later, someone with whom he could leave a message; perhaps he'd only really understood what must be done in the hours before Molly's arrival and made speedy arrangements. It was impossible to tell.

"I'm sorry, Molly." Sherlock broke through the young lady's horrified thoughts.

"Sherlock…" she said. One last desperate plea.

"I cannot be allowed to keep company with those whom I continue to put in harm's way."

Molly swallowed. Somewhere in the back of her mind came the realization that she had failed and John would hate her – possibly forever. "Where will you go?"

Sherlock watcher her calmly for a moment, his mask slipping for only an instant to reveal fear and doubt and sadness, and Molly thought perhaps he _was_ going to tell her his future plans. But of course that was just silliness. Sherlock Holmes was indeed back – if only for brief intervals in his day – and Molly knew that if he had chosen to leave, for good and all, no one would find him. Not this time.

Sherlock stood and began winding his scarf around his neck.

"I'll call for John," she threatened lamely.

Sherlock chuckled. "You'll find that course of action rather futile."

Molly raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock just glanced meaningfully at the mug of coffee on the table in front of Molly – the one John had offered her before he'd gone off to bed, from the last pot he'd made before Molly's arrival – and Molly knew she was already doomed.

"Sedatives?" she asked gloomily, and her limbs suddenly felt weak, as if the very word had given the pills their power.

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid you'll both be out for nearly twelve hours."

Molly tried not to cry. She did. But one tear slipped despite herself. "Please don't go."

Sherlock ignored her, packing a few things into a small duffle.

"Please don't leave him – this will kill him. You know it will."

Sherlock straightened for just a moment. Molly felt her body relaxing, felt her eyelids drooping dangerously. The sky outside was black and the room felt as if it might be spinning.

"You'll tell him why I had to go, won't you, Molly?" Sherlock was there suddenly, close to her face, obscuring her vision and breathing sweetly in her face.

"Please…" Molly felt more tears, falling from eyes that were now closed, welling up from a desperate sort of fear. And then she was gone.

"Tell him I'm sorry."

And Sherlock Holmes wandered outside the doors of 221b – perhaps his only sanctuary – back into the night, back into darkness and uncertainty and danger. And upstairs, John Watson was indeed hearing the notes of a lovely violin sonata but alas: it was all in his dreams. It wasn't real.


	13. Of Debts Unpaid

_Author's Note__: Well hello again! I regret to inform that this is indeed the penultimate chapter in this, my longest chapter story to date. Not much to say on this one other than I heartily enjoyed writing it for you and I do hope you give me some feedback before I post the last chapter of the story (hopefully in a week or so). Also … I know it's rather pompous of me, but I'd like to think that perhaps I might reach 200 reviews by the time this story is through – I think that would make me just about the happiest girl in the whole wide world. Just thought I'd throw that out there…_

_Finally, on a side note, to the __**Twice-ler**__: I am whole-heartedly grateful for your being so meticulous, and if you sense that there is a time discrepancy that's because there probably is one, haha. I promise I did go over and over the last chapter to try and make sure it was correct, but unfortunately math and concrete temporality cannot be counted among my talents. I do hope it wasn't too distracting and that the story still stands strong enough on its own merit. _

_And with no further ado, please enjoy!_

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><p>"Fancy another, mate?"<p>

Sherlock Holmes heard the question before he could fathom from whence it had come. There was a ringing in his ears – a buzzing, almost like the drone of a ceiling fan in the night – and his eyes took more time than they should have done adjusting to the light. There was a man standing in front of him: dirty-blond hair and dark-ish blue eyes, square shoulders, a wealth of laugh-lines and a glaringly familiar stature deficiency.

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask politely: "I beg your pardon?", but his tongue was heavy and the insides of his cheeks felt like sandpaper and the sounds that fell from his lips sounded neither polite nor like any intelligible question.

The bartender chuckled – reinforcing the John-Watson resemblance – and patted Sherlock's hand reassuringly. "Oh yeah? Was that a 'yes' or a 'no', do you think?"

Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear it. This wasn't the first time he'd come back to himself in an unfamiliar place – it wasn't even the first time he'd come back to himself in this particular bar, across from this same bartender. In fact, Sherlock could remember "waking up" here at least six times in the two-or-so weeks since he'd left Baker Street. Or perhaps it had been three weeks? Time was becoming harder to track the longer he was away. Not only that, but his lucid periods were becoming fewer and farther between – a trend that was increasingly difficult to follow without the aid of John's thorough notes on his condition.

Sherlock shook his head weakly at the bartender to make him go away and checked his watch. 1:13 a.m. The last time he'd remembered checking his watch it had been two-thirty in the afternoon and he'd been just waking up from a nap in his dingy little hotel room. But had that been two-thirty _today_ – less than twelve hours ago – or two-thirty _yesterday_ afternoon? Sherlock considered asking the barkeep … _again_, but thought better of it. The last thing he needed was to be drawing attention to himself – besides, being stone-drunk in a bar multiple nights a week and completely unaware of the date seemed somehow below him.

Sherlock closed his eyes a moment and tried to concentrate, willed his brain to fill in the gaps. What was he doing in the hours – sometimes full days – that his mind erased? And why did his subconscious drag him to this hole-in-the-wall night after night? Yes, the bartender looked like John's long lost brother, and he missed John – _of course_ he missed John – but then why didn't he come-to in John's bedroom back at Baker Street? The dark-haired man smiled despite himself: his subconscious was indulging in the memory of John while maintaining his conscious decision to keep the real John safe by keeping his distance. Sherlock was pleased his resolve in this had not wavered even with the frequent loss of his lucidity.

But then … John's safety was not the only problem he faced. There was the small matter of how one who lost chunks of time, frequently got snockered on weekdays, and suffered violent episodes of paranoid relapse could ever live any sort of _normal_ life at all.

Sherlock's smile had melted away. He felt completely useless – entirely baffled. When he'd left Baker Street he really had fully intended on returning. He had thought he'd spend a few days, perhaps weeks, away – somewhere quiet where he could mediate, recuperate, plan, rework – and then return when he'd felt that his brain was making sufficient progress in the direction of recovery. Sitting in his armchair on that last day his spirits had been high, despite his predicament. He knew his leaving again would rip the heart right out of John, but he'd truly thought it would be temporary – that his triumphant and ultimate return was only a few weeks in the making.

Now he knew better. That day back in his armchair had been the longest stretch of lucidity he could recall. And what's more – even those lucid periods in his past seemed to be getting fuzzier. He began doubting little details and blurring time. Everything he remembered and thought he remembered and everything that was entirely false kept getting mixed up and tossed about and Sherlock knew he was not getting any better. He was getting worse.

He felt his breath coming quicker and his cheeks draining what little color they still had. Though he could catalogue and identify his symptoms (clear signs of a panic attack), he could do nothing to stop them. He felt nauseous – and the smell of the bar didn't help. The world seemed to spin faster and his heart was pounding in his chest, trying to keep up. It was madness – all of it, pure, illogical, crippling madness.

"You alright, mate?"

Sherlock felt his throat tighten. He knew his expression must be a mixture of terror and desperation. He nodded mutely and almost-smiled as the tenderhearted barkeep set down a tall glass of water before him.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, proud that the words came out sounding relatively normal.

The cool water cleared away some of his panic and emboldened him. "I'm sorry," he caught the bartender before he could walk away, "but might you tell me the date today?"

The bartender's face took on a look of concern – the laugh lines became worry lines. "Hey," he said gently, leaning against the bar, "I know it ain't none of my business, really, but how is it you don't never know what day it is?"

Sherlock looked pointedly at the seven empty rocks glasses in front of him.

The sandy-haired man laughed sadly and shook his head. "I've seen my fair share of drunks, lad, and you've got something else going on entirely. You wanna fill me in?"

And he _did_ – for a moment – wanted to spill his guts to this stranger who was not a stranger. But it passed and … "No."

The bartender nodded but persisted anyhow. "Because you don't have to tell _me_ anything, you know, but you ought to talk to _somebody_."

Sherlock sipped his water, trying his best to keep his poker face from slipping. How much did this man know about him? How much had he been saying in his unconscious moments of, apparent depressed binge drinking?

"What about that bloke as always takes you home? He ought to take better care of you."

Sherlock's head shot up and he locked eyes with the man across the bar. "W-what?" This time he couldn't help his voice shaking.

"You know, that chap you leave with all the time."

"Who?" Sherlock demanded. How could he have absolutely no memory of this man?

"Just assumed he was your boyfriend, you know? Not that I'm judging or nothing – handsome bloke, he is."

Sherlock could feel the lines of confusion deepening on his face. "And I leave with him … every night?"

"Every night you're here," the bartender chuckled, "which I guess has been most nights lately, yeah."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. A dozen questions seemed to ping-pong about his skull. "_Most_ nights … recently?" Damn, he could never remember being so inarticulate in his life.

"Well sure, mate, you've been here every night for a week straight."

"No," Sherlock stumbled, "No … that can't be right."

The sandy-haired man leaned in close. "Hey now. Steady on. Take a breath-"

"The date – you never told me the date …" Sherlock could feel his pulse thudding in his throat and his mouth felt dry and hot.

…"May 23rd."

Sherlock gasped. The last time he remembered being lucid was nearly a week and a half ago. How could he have lost so much time? Where had he been, and what had he been doing?

"Mate?"

Sherlock was grasping the bar with both hands, knuckles white on the wood. "And the man … did he give you a name?" It didn't make any sense.

The bartender pursed his lips. "Never said much of anything, to be honest. First night I saw him he comes in here, sits down next to you, chatted you up a bit, and gave me a whole stack of cash – said to give you whatever you wanted. He only comes back in to pick you up."

"Why would he do that?"

The man laughed. "Hell if I know, mate. Said he owed you."

The world tipped – Sherlock was certain the axis tilted and he was going to be pulled down over the edge.

The bartender kept talking – telling Sherlock what the man looked like and how he always thought he was a bit off, but how Sherlock never seemed threatened and it wasn't really his business to butt into his patron's affairs and –

"Hey," the bartender said suddenly, "hey where are you going, mate?"

But Sherlock was already gone. Gone through the haze of drink and insanity to a place that he knew and felt and that centered him. If you'd asked him in that moment – as he went sprinting through the roads of ancient London, desperate and horrified – he couldn't have told you what exactly was real and what was imaginary. He still hadn't found the answers to any of the questions that had been haunting him in the bar. But he knew now with a growing, terrifying certainty that in some reality, somewhere, James Moriarty was alive and he was plotting and John was alone and vulnerable and unaware back at Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes steeled his nerve and took a breath and let the early-morning breeze restore some semblance of clarity to his muddled, mad, mixed-up mind.


	14. The Game's Begun

_Author's Note__: Let me just begin by saying that this has been one truly enjoyable and at times maddening experience. I have received such a lovely reception for this story and I extend my sincerest thanks to all of you who have so faithfully reviewed and followed my work. Alas, all good things must come to an end and I hope that this final chapter meets all of your expectations. That being said, there will be a sequel, __**hopefully**__ in the very near future, in which most of this fic's loose ends will be tied up. _

_I don't know what else to say – I'm feeling a little emotional right now, haha. So I've written you an extra long chapter to finish up with here, and I beg that you please leave me some feedback and let me know what you'd like to see in the sequel since most of that plotline is still up in the air. _

_A final note: I realize that a lot of what was thrown in towards the end of this story (mainly Moriarty's role in all of this) doesn't see a lot of resolution in this chapter. I assure you that this is intentional. I realized after a read-through that this story is almost entirely made of angst and I didn't want to delve into another whole set of issues just as the story was coming to a close. Most of the conflict involving Moriarty will be seen in the sequel. My primary goal with this final chapter was A) give Sherlock his memory back and B) resolve what I found to be the biggest conflict between John and Mycroft and their differing views on Sherlock's safety. As you can obviously tell, this story has been rather morally and psychologically based – in the sequel there will (hopefully) be more action._

_Again, thank you so so so much, and I can't wait to see you on the other side!_

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><p>Later on, what John would recall was how <em>fast<em> everything had happened. Later on, what he would try _not_ to remember was how close he had come, that very day, to giving up on Sherlock altogether. Sitting in his old armchair, staring out the window and realizing that if the detective had really gone, had _chosen_ to go, what was the point in waiting for him to return? Later on, John would recall how the sky was gray and everything was quiet and silent and _dull_ when it all … happened.

First, there was the text message. A blocked number (wasn't it always?) with the simple message:

_**The game's no fun without my favorite pawn. Come out and play?**_

John stumbled – fell, really – out of his chair and had barely gotten to his knees when his phone was ringing off the hook. Naturally, Mycroft was first. John tried to organize his thoughts, tried to contain his fear and quell the violence that threatened to overwhelm him when he thought of the text message and its implications…

"_John? Stay where you are; I have reinforcements on the way. Keep your weapon handy. I'm having Ms. Hooper delivered to the flat so that we can keep an eye on both of you at once. I will call when I can."_

No sooner had the phone clicked off on Mycroft's end than there was a second incoming call.

Lestrade this time. _"John? What's going on? Just got off the line with Mycroft's bloody secretary, of all people. Andrea, is it? Said I should meet you at Baker Street. Wouldn't tell me a damn thing – just said it was vital I get to where you are. Everything all right, mate? Did they find Sherlock?"_

Before John could answer, Mrs. Hudson was in the room. "John?" As always, the good landlady seemed only mildly flustered. "John dear, what's all this then? That lovely girl Molly just called and told me to make sure you were still here. Are you quite well? What's happened?"

And they arrived in the same order in which they'd called. First Mycroft's "reinforcements" – six dizzyingly tall men in pristine black suits and earpieces; second, Inspector Lestrade, gun in hand but unsure where exactly to point it; and third, a pale Molly Hooper in flannel pajamas and a frown.

Later on, John would recall how they waited only three hours and how it felt like days. Later on, John would realize that this was because no one knew quite what to do with themselves. Mycroft hadn't told anyone anything, leaving the women pacing and anxious and the men thirsty for any type of action at all. Outside, the London evening marched on in a dull haze of drizzle and fog. Inside, John paced from the kitchen to the sofa and tried not to imagine all the horrific ways in which Sherlock's nemesis might currently be abusing him. Later on, John would recall feeling so useless he could have wept.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Mycroft was in the living room – the now very crowded living room. He towered above everyone and his eyes were like steel as he held on to John's shoulders and looked down on him sternly, sadly. John stared, dazed, at the taller man's lips as Mycroft told him not to worry – it looked bad, yes, but they couldn't risk taking him to hospital and they needed John's help fixing him up.

"Fixing him up?" John asked weakly, feeling faint and not understanding a word of what was being said to him.

Then he heard Molly gasp and the sound of Mrs. Hudson's sniffles. The be-suited men were trying to pull the women from the room and Mycroft was issuing orders. But as the chaos subsided somewhat, John noticed that there was a body on the sofa that hadn't been there before.

He said "body" and not "person" because "person" intimated some sort of conscious, living, _human_ state. The body on the sofa was rather closer to the "corpse" end of the spectrum. John should have recognized him immediately – of course he should – but the good doctor's brain seemed to be functioning barely at sustenance level. _Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale_…

It wasn't until he felt Lestrade's heavy hand on his shoulder and heard the comforting words: "Steady on, John, he's still alive and that's what counts", that he realized the corpse-body belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

_Exhale._

John's knees hit the floor and his hands went instantly to his friend's face. Somewhere in the background he heard Mycroft begin to protest – something about time being of the utmost – and Lestrade scold him for being a heartless twat.

The doctor drowned out all other noises and tried to focus on the man before him. He was cataloging injuries – four broken ribs, fractured skull, internal bleeding, third degree burns – when he heard a familiar voice beside him.

"What do you need?"

Molly Hooper was pale and there were tears in her eyes, but John could think of no one else he'd rather have beside him in such a moment. Mycroft's men were all good with guns and smartphones, certainly, but another _doctor_ – another level head and another pair of steady hands – well, that was far more valuable. Molly sniffed once and awaited John's instruction.

"Sutures kit – in the kitchen," John managed through gritted teeth, "heavy bandaging, a split, fuck, two pints of type O blood if we can get it, burn cream, and-" he groaned as he said it, "morphine … lots and lots of morphine."

Molly nodded briefly and spun on her heel to deliver her demands to Mycroft. If John hadn't been so preoccupied, he might have found a moment to appreciate the way Molly Hooper issued orders to the man in charge.

Unfortunately, John had little time for amusements as he was currently staunching the flow of blood from his best friend's skull with the only thing immediately at hand – his jumper. Two fingers at Sherlock's throat told him that while the detective was indeed still alive, he was only just barely hanging on. The pulse was faint, the eyelids were fluttering, and there was blood leaking from between Sherlock's lips.

"John-"

"Shut up, Mycroft."

John dealt with wounds as supplies became available to him. The sutures kit in the kitchen allowed him to begin sewing up the more minor wounds first. When Molly and two of Mycroft's men retuned with hospital supplies, he was able to move on to the more appalling injuries.

It felt like hours before the work was complete. Every stitch John sewed and every bone he set seemed only to lead him to some new wound. There was blood everywhere – under the doctor's fingernails, seeping into the sofa cushions, running over Sherlock's eyelids. It's hue and abundance brought John back to that day when it had all begun – the day of the Fall, when John had had to hold his friend's bloodied hand and accept that it was over – that there was no way a human body could withstand so much trauma. Of course, the detective had been fooling him then; John was certain even Sherlock Holmes could not deceive him _this_ time.

Finally, John ran his hands over Sherlock from the crown of his head to the tips of his long toes. There were all manner of bumps and lumps in places there shouldn't have been, and many planes of skin bruised and burned into unnatural colors, but John knew he had done his work well and that all he could do now was sit back and will the dark-haired man to _heal_.

As John let his shoulders slump, as he let the room fall back into focus, he was keenly aware of the others around him. No one spoke or moved a muscle, but they were all there – watching him, watching Sherlock, contaminating everything with their breathing and their staring and the fear that John could not escape.

There was Lestrade, hovering in the doorway, still with his trigger-finger twitching, head reeling because these Holmes boys sure knew how to make enemies. There was Mrs. Hudson, in her nightie and with tears streaming down her aged face, sniffling and whimpering. There was Molly Hooper – perhaps the _least_ irritating of them all – standing watch behind John's left shoulder and trembling out of worry and a crippling, stomach-churning guilt. And there was Mycroft.

Mycroft. Standing tall before the hellfire glow of the fireplace in the dim living room, umbrella like a saber, tip digging into the carpet, his jaw set firm against the emotion tightening his chest.

John knew that Mycroft was hurt – knew that the pain of what he'd done to his own brother was choking the life out of him. That the man who was the entirety of the British government was only still standing on two feet thanks to the aid of that bloody awful umbrella…

But John Watson was on his knees and frankly, he didn't give a damn how Mycroft Holmes felt.

"Get out."

"John…" Mrs. Hudson scolded gently.

"No," John shook his head resolutely. "No, nope, absolutely fucking not, no way. Get out. Everybody."

Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You shouldn't be alone right now, mate…"

John heaved a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose: a perfect imitation of the unconscious consulting detective attempting to dispel a room full of stupid. Why did no one ever _listen _to him?

Slowly, deliberately, John dragged himself to his feet and turned to face the crowd. Everyone's eyes were sad, pitying – only Mycroft was watching him with a calculating eye: a chess player predicting his next move.

John kept his gaze locked with Mycroft's for perhaps twenty seconds before the taller man's anticipatory gaze drove him clear over the edge. John swore he felt his blood boil. The doctor, it seemed, had checked out entirely; even the cold precision of the soldier abandoned John in that moment, leaving behind only a broken, sleep-deprived, nearly insane man standing over the body of his best friend.

The four shots that John fired into the living room wall had exactly three side effects.

First, Molly and Mrs. Hudson screamed and were hastily escorted outside and into the street by an ashen-faced Inspector Lestrade.

Second, all six of Mycroft's minions trained their weapons on the doctor as a chorus of guns being cocked was heard over the screams of the women.

Third, Mycroft Holmes blinked twice.

When the dust settled, metaphorically speaking, Mycroft dismissed his men with a silent wave of the hand and only he and John remained in the flat, glowering at each other over the body of Sherlock Holmes. There was silence as Mycroft waited for the doctor to say his piece, but John was trembling from head to foot and could no sooner think of any words to waste on the arrogant sod in front of him than he could have fired those last four shots into the helpless man on the sofa.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft ventured cautiously, "put the gun down." He could not forget that he was dealing with a soldier – a trained combatant and a crack shot – who suffered extreme PTSD.

"I want you to leave," John ground out, the effort leaving his muscles aching and tense with forced civility.

Mycroft nodded understandingly. "And I shall concede your wishes – you see, I have much work ahead of me, in light of recent events. But I would ask you to allow a few concessions."

John shook his head fiercely, pushing Mycroft and everything else violently away, wanting only to collapse on the living room floor beside his battered friend and simply breathe. But before he could voice his protestations, Mycroft was speaking and John did not have the energy to stop him:

"I would ask that you allow Mrs. Hudson to return to Baker Street – it _is_ her home, and she has been away for far too long already. I also need someone here to keep a friendly eye on you, John, and I am certain the good landlady's presence would prove far more palatable than anyone I might appoint for the position."

John nodded once, wearily, the gun now dangling by his side, sapping his energy. "Fine."

"I would ask that you allow me to reactivate the surveillance to this flat, that I might keep watch without disturbing the tranquility of my brother's recovery."

Again, a curt nod from the doctor.

"I would ask that you give Sherlock _this_," Mycroft proffered a flash drive from the pocket of his jacket. "It is a video confession of sorts, made presumably within the last twenty-four hours. Sherlock had it sent to me when he realized how desperate his situation was."

"Yes," John nodded, taking the drive and slipping it into the pocket of his jeans.

"I ask that you return this to my brother when you believe he is … _able_ to watch it."

"Is there anything else?" John demanded irritably.

"Yes," Mycroft drawled, betraying himself with a worried glance towards the sofa. "I ask that you not let him escape again."

John was about to protest that that was hardly _his_ fault and that none of this would ever have happened in the first place were it not for Mycroft, when the taller man held up a steadying hand and said, "The score is now tied, Dr. Watson – we have _both_ lost him once. But I," Mycroft gestured himself wearily, almost humbly, "am offering you a second chance – a courtesy you never extended me."

John grimaced.

"I am trusting you to keep my little brother safe, despite _both_ our mistakes." Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back and looked John up and down. "You care too much, Dr. Watson, and that has proved your greatest failing up to this point."

John frowned, sighed, and felt suddenly weary beyond words. Giving up, he indulged Mycroft's apparent desire for a tête-à-tête. "And yours? What is your… 'greatest failing'? Why can't either of us keep him safe when that's all we've tried to do?"

Mycroft sighed heavily, casting a long look out the window and into the night. He looked as if he were going to say something, but changed his mind at the last. With a hastily retracted gaze, Mycroft began: "Suffice it to say, I am a cold individual. There are … _sacrifices_ I have made to achieve my position – a position my brother mocks, but which was attained only so that I might better protect him. The result, as you can see," Mycroft held his palms face-up, "has been neither pretty nor kind."

John wanted to take a step forward; to place a hand on Mycroft's shoulder – the pity he couldn't feel earlier suddenly resurfacing – but Mycroft halted his motions with a step backwards.

"Do not mistake me, Dr. Watson," he said suddenly, the firelight behind him distorting the shadows at his feet, "I am quite serious when I say that caring is not an advantage. Were it possible, I would rid myself entirely of meddlesome emotions and be stronger for it. Unfortunately …" Mycroft's eyes strayed to the sofa, "the level of _care_ my brother requires is beyond the ability of most."

John frowned. "You can't really believe caring to be such a disadvantage when it's saved his life."

Mycroft sighed again. "It is complicated, John. Perhaps more complicated than you understand. I have spent my life protecting Sherlock because no one else has been able to do so. It wasn't a choice – it was a necessity. Every decision I've ever made – everyone move, every promotion – has been undertaken with the intention of placing myself in a position better suited to shield my younger brother; he is all I have. This single-minded determination has made the man you see before you," Mycroft chuckled, "a man _you_ have come to despise for his … _bitter detachment_."

John was revisited by the urge to touch Mycroft – to make contact – but the taller man continued, seemingly lost in his own thought, unaware of his audience.

"There was a time when I might have been capable of …" Mycroft placed a hand in the center of his chest – signifying _love, sentiment, emotion_ – John couldn't be sure, "but that time is long since past. I care for my brother out of necessity – it is my _job_ and I am capable; you care for him freely, by choice, and therein lies a world of difference."

John's eyebrows furrowed in the middle. "How?"

"We both care, and that is our flaw. _My_ love of Sherlock has consumed me and cost me my humanity. _Your_ love has overwhelmed you and rendered you incapable of seeing _his_ flaws. In both our cases, this love has proven a disadvantage. I didn't trust him enough – you trusted him too much. We must try to learn from our mistakes, John. I," Mycroft gestured himself, "must refrain from disassociation to the point of harm. And you," Mycroft smiled warmly in John's direction, "must learn that while my brother may _seem_ superhuman, he is far weaker and far more fragile than perhaps any of us."

John sighed, "I know that," he said, but his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Do not be so disheartened, doctor. I said that caring too much was your greatest failing. It is also perhaps your_ only_ failing … and I could pose no higher approbation to anyone."

John looked up from the floor and the corner of his mouth twitched – an almost-smile that did not escape his companion's notice.

There was a moment of shared sentiment, and then-

"This is irrelevant." Mycroft checked his watch and straightened his vest. "Remember what I've told you, John."

John nodded, feeling as if he had been abruptly pulled from a dream, a daze. "Yes."

"And remember also," Mycroft continued, "that we do not yet know what Moriarty's intention may be. He had Sherlock completely within his power and then decided to give him up? He's playing an intricate game, John, and we do not yet understand the rules. The safest place for both you and Sherlock is within these walls."

"Yes."

"Keep him rested and calm – I trust your medical expertise concerning his physical injuries. The rest of him might prove more … challenging to repair."

John nodded, understanding.

"I will be in contact when we know more."

And just like that, Mycroft Holmes was gone.

* * *

><p>In the morning, John awoke to a sun-soaked living room. He hadn't meant to fall asleep – and kneeling on the carpet holding Sherlock's hand wasn't the most comfortable position to fall asleep <em>in<em> – but once again, John hadn't really had a say in the matter. After Mycroft had left the previous evening, John had only been able to preserve approximately ninety minutes of consciousness. Fifteen of those minutes had been spent pacing – shaking and shedding the nerves and grueling anxieties of the past few hours. The remaining seventy-five minutes had been spent clasping, kissing, grasping, sobbing over Sherlock's hand. The detective never regained consciousness – nor had John expected him to, with all the sedative in his system – but the lack of a chastisement over John's excessive show of "unnecessary" sentiment had saddened the doctor yet further.

When John woke the following morning, it was nearing seven o'clock. The dawn was bright and clear despite the London smog, and the smell in the air was clean and pleasant after the previous night's rain. About to stretch and disengage the crick in his neck, John was shocked to find that he was not the first one awake.

Sherlock Holmes retained his position of the previous evening, but his eyes were wide open and staring at the ceiling. His expression was so entirely blank that for one ungodly moment John was certain that he must be dead. The doctor's breath must have caught at that moment because Sherlock said, "Good morning, John," in a voice that was deep and full and only a little pained.

John stayed perfectly still, paralyzed. "Morning, Sherlock."

A pause and then: "You _can_ move, John, I'm sure that position is not at all comfortable. You have, unwisely, fallen asleep on your bad shoulder."

John obeyed only to the extent that he straightened his spine and cracked his neck – his hand he kept firmly entwined with Sherlock's. He didn't know what to say to this man who was now so completely broken but who was speaking with all the poise and elegance of the _old_ Sherlock.

"Did Mycroft catch him?" Clearly, Sherlock had little time for pleasantries.

And how dearly John wanted to nod and tell his friend that yes, of course Mycroft had caught all the bad guys, and hush, everything is alright, and all you need to worry about is resting and a full recovery. But…

"No," John admitted, and bit his lip. From here on out he determined that Sherlock would hear nothing but the truth, at least from him.

The detective sighed, then winced at the pain it caused in his chest. There was a moment of silence, and then John asked, tentatively: "What _happened_, Sherlock?"

The dark-haired man looked towards the window and said only, "Moriarty has played a far greater hand in all of this than we had suspected, and for much longer than anyone has realized."

John swallowed, afraid to ask for any more information than Sherlock was willing to volunteer. He could feel his friend's grey eyes on him and so tried to arrange his face into any expression that might appear more reassuring than the fear and sadness that he knew was there now.

Sherlock chuckled at this sudden bout of self-awareness and John might have scolded him for reopening the split in his upper lip, but the doctor instead returned the smile and brought the still-damp rag up to wipe away the blood that was now trickling from the open wound. "Well…" he said distractedly as he dabbed at the cut – this one action prompting his hands to roam over Sherlock's body, instinctively adopting their doctor's work, "how are you feeling?"

"Rather spectacularly, given the circumstances – but I assume I have the morphine to thank for that. Once an addict, always an addict."

This last was delivered with a rather devilish grin and John laughed and choked back a sob both at once. "Don't joke," he chided halfheartedly, "_don't_. Not about that."

Sherlock obediently kept his lips pressed tightly together – only the ghost of a fond smile as he watched John check his pulse, feel his forehead, prod gently at his bruises and ask how badly they hurt.

"John," Sherlock said after several minutes had passed and it was clear that John was not only performing an examination but also avoiding his eyes.

"Yes?" the doctor asked, now distractedly re-folding and stacking clean bandages.

"You can stop pretending to be calm and just ask me already."

John kept on with the bandages, just as if he hadn't heard at all. But his jaw was set very tight and the lines around his eyes were deep and distressed.

Sherlock sighed sadly and answered the unasked question. "I remember everything," he offered, watching John's face carefully.

John shook his head, still keeping his hands busy and refusing to look up. "No," he said stoutly, "nope. We've been here before, remember? And I'm glad your mind is clear now, but you're going to relapse again, so just…"

Sherlock sighed an exasperated sort of sigh, and John tried not to wish so hard for the words that followed…

"_Do_ keep up, John. I was never … _clean_, if that's the word, from the moment Mycroft administered my first dose of medication. All those times we thought I should have been getting better, and all the time Moriarty was involved. He was _here_, John, when I was relapsing – _he_ was the one still feeding me the drugs."

John groaned at his own blinding inability to take care of the one person who mattered. "He … _all_ the time?"

Sherlock nodded, "It would appear so."

John wanted to ask so many more questions, wanted to hear everything, but he could see that Sherlock was already getting tired and so reigned in his questions to form one last: "But you're … better now?"

The confusion on John's face made Sherlock's chest feel tight. "Yes," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "There are moments that still feel hazy, of course, but … yes, I think I am."

John kept his face neutral – tried not to think about the many times this hope had surfaced before being violently quashed.

"John," Sherlock cautioned, and his voice was low, "I know you have been through perhaps even more than I have in these last few months. But you _must_ believe me now."

John's tongue was doing that thing – that thing it always did when he was thinking very hard about something. Sherlock could see the gears turning – could see the hope and weariness battling behind his eyes. But in the end, as he always did, John Watson stood with a massive sigh, threw his hands above his head, and asked resignedly with an almost-smile, "Right. Of course – well, _you_ tell _me_ then, Sherlock bloody Holmes … what's next?"

Sherlock's grin was wide and beaming. "Brilliant John," he said, both approvingly and affectionately. "There is a dangerous consulting criminal on the loose; I'm going to _need_ my blogger."

John chuckled, incredulous, and looked his friend up and down. Horizontal on the sofa, blood on his lips, one eye swollen shut, naked torso heavily bandaged, IV running from his left arm. "Sherlock," he knelt beside his friend, "Whatever sodding crazy idea you have in mind … it's going to have to wait."

Sherlock frowned.

"You aren't going anywhere and we aren't doing anything for _at least_ two weeks."

Sherlock huffed, "Two weeks? What for?"

"_Rest_," John began dangerously, feeling the old exasperation bubble up from some unused place, "and recuperation. Have you _seen _yourself?"

"As I am rather incapable of leaving the sofa, I should say obviously I have not."

"Right," John nodded, "my point exactly."

"Very well, doctor," Sherlock sighed, "you have two weeks."

John had his mouth open and ready to argue when he realized that the detective had, in fact, agreed with him. "Ah," he stumbled, "right then. Well … yes. Good."

There was a moment of suspended silence when Sherlock looked up from the sofa. "John?" he said with a taunting grin. "I could _die_ for a cup of tea."

And so John made tea. And Sherlock lay on the sofa and watched the sun creep across the ceiling. And somewhere, out in the vast expanse of London, there was someone planning a new game – a game with obscure, intimate rules that would come to baffle the still-recovering genius and destroy the stout-hearted doctor.

But that didn't matter – not yet, not quite yet – because Sherlock was home and the kettle was set to boil and the morning had dawned clear and bright on that ancient, iniquitous city of theirs. And when John returned from the kitchen to find Sherlock already fast asleep, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks before surreptitiously tucking the detective's scarf beside him on the pillow.

_**Fin.**_


End file.
